Fear No More
by Jedi Sapphire
Summary: It's just a straightforward salt-and-burn, so Dean and John decide it'll be the perfect job to give Sam as his first solo hunt. And then it stops being so straightforward.
1. How the Hunt Began

**Author's Note:** So I do actually still have one paper to go… But I have a few days, so I thought I'd get this started. This is my first shot at writing pre-series boys (and will also be my first shot at writing John Winchester, although his role isn't huge).

Have fun!

**Summary:** It's just a straightforward salt-and-burn, so Dean and John decide it'll be the perfect job to give Sam as his first solo hunt. And then it stops being so straightforward.

* * *

**Fear No More**

_Golden lads and girls all must,  
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.  
(William Shakespeare)_

* * *

**Chapter I: How the Hunt Began**

Once upon a time, when I was short and skinny and fourteen years old, Dad took a case in California. Over the years, he took a lot of cases in California – it's a big state, and not all of it is Silicon Valley and Hollywood – but this one concerned me closely.

And Dean. Because, you know, being the annoying big brother he is, he hasn't minded his own business since the day I was born (or for all I know, since the day _he _was born), so everything that concerns me eventually winds up concerning him, too. _Especially _if it also concerns things that go bump in the night.

I was fourteen (and a half) years old, Dean was eighteen – just a few months shy of nineteen – and had dropped out of high school, and it was November 2. Dad was drunk. Dean was drunk. (You _were_ drunk, Dean. I distinctly remember it. I was the only one sober.) I was trying to shut both of them out and get on with my History essay, but of course _that _wasn't going to happen. So eventually I gave up, closed my books, and listened to them tell each other (and me) about all the things they were going to do to It when they found It.

Yeah, _that _It. When I was fourteen we didn't know (or at least _I _didn't know, and I'm pretty sure Dean didn't know) that it was a demon, leave alone that it was a yellow-eyed demon called Azazel. I don't want to speculate about how much Dad knew.

They were about half an hour into it when the call came from Caleb.

We left as soon as Dad could arrange it.

A week later, I found myself squinting in the west coast sunshine as I looked up at the imposing red brick edifice that was Ellison Prep.

Backtrack? OK.

Ellison was a high-class prep school in California. Senators and Hollywood stars and Texas oil magnates sent their children there. The school was set in fifty acres of rolling parkland complete with swimming pools, tennis courts and a miniature golf course. There were twenty-foot walls shielding the students inside from the curious gaze of the world.

It was _not_ the kind of place one of us would have been within a mile of, normally.

But this was a case.

Principal Summers was a friend of Caleb's. Caleb had helped him out when his long-dead great-grandfather had taken exception to a gazebo he wanted to build on the family property. So, when Summers had looked up from the admissions list one morning to see a translucent twelve-year-old flickering in front of him, one hand outstretched plaintively, he'd known whom to call.

Caleb was chasing down an _alleged_ swamp monster in Florida (with the emphasis on _alleged_ – don't ask), so he called Dad, who was the nearest hunter he knew. Dad checked it the school's history once he'd sobered up, and decided that it must be the ghost of little Adam Jefferson, a student who'd died of pneumonia in February 1955. He'd been buried in his hometown in Illinois, but Dad was sure we'd find something – a lock of hair, or a diary – preventing him from going into the light.

It had seemed like a straightforward, open-and-shut case – the ghost wasn't hurting anyone – so he decided that it would be good practice for me.

I'd been enrolled as Sam Davis, heir of an old but impoverished New England family.

I wasn't completely on my own, of course. Dean was there to back me up (Dean Peters, son of a rich financier from New York), and Dad had set up shop in a motel in Yellow Sands, a small town about a mile away.

It was only Dean's presence next to me that let me suppress a shiver as I looked up at the building. Something felt wrong.

"Sammy?" Dean asked. "You OK?"

"Fine," I muttered.

It was a lie, though. I wasn't. There was something about the school – about the building, the trees, the flowers, even the _gravel_ on the path – that seemed off. Evil. Malicious. I couldn't help a horrible sense of foreboding, and I could barely muster up a smile for Principal Summers when he came out to meet us and show us our rooms.

Did I mention that we were residents?

Dean's room was miles away from mine (probably _literally _miles in those winding corridors), and he wasn't happy about that. Dean apparently thought that after years of training I still didn't know how to handle a spirit that wasn't even _vengeful_.

He started out with a couple of small frowns, and when Summers didn't get the hint he progressed to complaining and finally just outright threatened to call the whole thing off unless he could keep an eye on me. He only relented when Summers promised to let him put salt lines down in my room and vet the students who were on either side.

We left our carefully-packed trunks (provided by Summers) in our rooms and went to class.

I knew the drill of introductions by then. Name (it usually wasn't an alias then, because we needed our school records), age, where I was from (Kansas, when I felt like it), and then sit down and wait to see who would talk to me.

Most students usually weren't interested in the weird new kid. It was the same at Ellison, although a pretty redhead in the third row gave me a shy smile and offered to share her notes. I smiled back and thanked her, and felt another thrill of foreboding as I settled into my seat.

The day's first lesson (second, actually; I'd missed the first) was History with Ms. Sanders. Then we had English Lit with Mr. Jacobi and Math with Ms. Gomez. Then it was recess, and I went down to the cafeteria with the redhead (Melinda) and her friends Katy, Dennis and Tom.

The food was much better than at any other school I'd had been to. Dean caught my eye and winked from where he was sitting with his arm around one of the cheerleaders at the Senior table. Dean thinking with his downstairs brain was so _normal _that it dispelled a lot of the heavy atmosphere I'd been feeling. By the time I had to cross the quadrangle to go to the Chemistry lab, I was feeling a lot happier.

Melinda started sniffling as we crossed the lawn. (She and Dennis were taking the same Chemistry class as I was.) "Allergies," she explained, fumbling for a tissue.

"Now?"

"All year round, when I'm at school. I think maybe it's something about California. The air, or the Pacific, or something like that. I never have any problems at home. My family's from Florida."

I filed the information away automatically. (Because that was what I did, right? Sam the Geek.) But I didn't think much of it beyond noting that Melinda's sniffles didn't seem to improve even after we got indoors. (But then, it was the Chemistry lab. Somehow every Chemistry lab in every school I've ever been to has been full of weird smells. Probably made people's allergies worse.)

"Welcome, Sam," smiled the teacher, a tall, dark-haired man whom I disliked on instinct. "My name is Mr. Baker. Mr. Summers told me you'd be joining us today. I take it you've done Chemistry in the school you transferred from?"

"Yes, Mr. Baker," I said politely.

"Good. So you know the basics of being in a lab. Be careful, don't pour the hydrochloric into the nitric to see what happens, don't put your hand in anything, and if you feel ill, dizzy or lightheaded for any reason, step outside until you feel better. One of the school nurses is always on hand in case of any accidents, and of course you can ask me if you need any help."

The hour in the lab felt more like three – Chemistry was never one of my favourite subjects – but eventually it ended and Melinda, Dennis and I hurried back to the main building to leave our books in our lockers before gym.

After gym, I had the rest of the day free. I said I'd go up and unpack. The truth was I wanted some time to myself, but Tom and Dennis insisted they'd come and help. I didn't want to turn them down – they looked so enthusiastic it would have been like refusing to play ball with a pair of puppies. And I knew Summers would've kept the contents of my trunk innocuous.

The key was on top, and inside were several sets of school uniform and some other clothes. _Douchebag clothes_, Dean would have called them, and for once I had to agree with him. There was being stylish, and then there was dressing like you were already CEO of a Forbes 500 company at the age of fourteen.

My only consolation was that Dean would have the same douchebag clothes as I did.

Fortunately I didn't see Dean at dinner. I didn't think I'd ever live down the clothes, even if Dean had to wear the same thing. But Freshmen and Seniors had separate dining rooms. (The Freshmen had a dining room. The Seniors, I gathered, had studies and had their meals brought in.)

The other person I didn't see was Melinda. Katy told us her sniffles had progressed into a full-blown cold and she was sleeping it off in her room.

I wondered if there was flu or something going round – I wasn't feeling all that hot myself. (God, it's been freaking fourteen _years _since we were at Ellison. I'm _sorry _I didn't come running to find you the second I felt less than 100% healthy. Now shut _up_ about it, Dean!) After dinner, I refused Dennis' suggestion of a nighttime trip to the pool with some of our classmates (I guessed that was the classy version of sneaking into the auditorium after hours) and went back to my room.

My head was pounding by the time I got back.

Normally that would've kept me awake, but that night I was lucky. I crawled into bed, hit the lights, and I was fast asleep in seconds.

When a noise woke me, it was still dark, my head still hurt, and there was a shadowy shape sitting on the edge of the bed.

I couldn't hold back a smile. "Dean."

"Sorry, kiddo," Dean said. "Go back to sleep. It's past midnight. I didn't mean to wake you. I heard that Tom kid saying you were sick, so I thought you might have forgotten the salt lines." I _had _forgotten. "I've put them down. Go back to sleep."

What would I do without Dean?

"I'm not sick," I told him. "I have a headache."

"Have? In the present tense?" I felt light fingers on my forehead. "You're not running a fever. Feeling any nausea or dizziness?"

"No, Dean."

"Hurt anywhere else?"

"Just my head."

"Take anything for it?"

"No. I don't need anything. I'll be fine."

"OK, Sammy." Dean's fingers moved up into my hair. "Go on, go back to sleep. Get some rest."

Next time I woke, it was morning and Dean was gone. So was the headache.

I washed and dressed and stumbled down to the Freshmen's dining room for breakfast. (Only lunch was in the cafeteria, and I never managed to figure out the Why of that. Summers said something about using it to give different classes a chance to interact. I didn't see much of _that _happening.)

Breakfast was eggs and waffles and cereal (_not _Lucky Charms). We had a half-hour to ourselves after that, which I used to get Melinda (who was feeling much better as well) to show me how to log on to the school's network. Summers' supplies _had _included a laptop (which I was pretty sure I wouldn't get to keep), and although the school didn't have wireless (this was in the technological Dark Ages of the 1990s), it did have broadband cables in every room. I was already learning that the Internet was a valuable tool for things _other _than the naked women whose pictures Dean was always downloading.

I had first-period Physics (_another _wasted lesson on me; Dean's the one who likes fiddling with wires and spanners), and then I was free until Math, right before lunch. My friends were busy, and it would look suspicious if I tried to corner Dean for a chat considering that nobody knew we were even related, so I went back up to my room and started some research on Adam Jefferson.

Someone – a maid, probably – had been in to clean and had swept up the salt (I don't even want to know what they thought I was doing with it). I let it be; I could lay them before I went to bed. I wasn't going to be in the room long anyway.

Dad hadn't been able to find a photograph with the news article. I didn't yet know enough to hack the FBI database (how I learnt _that _is a story for another time – even _Dean's _never heard that one), but the school had an online repository of class photographs and it wasn't hard to track the kid's picture down.

It was a grainy, black-and-white picture. You couldn't tell much: dark hair, dark eyes, exact colour of both indeterminate. But one thing _was _clear: Adam Jefferson had been a happy boy. He was smiling into the camera, smiling the way you can only smile when you don't have a care in the world.

I shivered.

And something had killed him.

I shivered harder.

And suddenly I knew it wasn't just the picture that had done it. The temperature in the room had dropped. There were goose bumps on my arms.

I swivelled my chair around slowly. There, right behind me, eerily pale in the now-flickering light, was a young boy, one hand held out in silent pleading. Wide-open eyes met mine, seemed to look through me into my very soul.

The ghost Summers had seen, almost certainly.

I looked from the boy to the picture and back.

The picture on the screen wasn't clear, but one thing was. The ghost child in the room with me wasn't Adam Jefferson.

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	2. How Big Brothers Are Weird

**Disclaimer:** Nothing's mine.

**AN: **Review replies will be after I've finished the last paper – I just about had time to clean up this chapter to post. Please know that I appreciate every review. *g*

For the reviews, thanks to kellywinchester, giacinta, emebalia, Winchesterlady, SandyDee84, godsdaughter77, kiwimoonelmo, criminally charmed, BranchSuper, SPN Mum, GreenGreatDragon, scootersmom, LH, twomoms, casammy, Lucydolly22, laurie31, Ally, hotshow, PutMoneyInThyPurse, deanheart22, doyleshuny, SamWin98, SparkieBunny, CeCe Away and Jane88.

Thanks to Cheryl, as ever.

* * *

**Chapter II: How Big Brothers Are Weird**

The ghost boy, whoever he was, didn't look like he planned to hurt me. He just looked like he wanted to say something.

"What?" I asked.

His eyes widened in surprise. Clearly, nobody had ever tried to _talk _to him before.

He tried to answer, but I think he was too far gone – maybe he'd been dead too long – to speak. Instead, I heard a weird buzz behind me, and turned again just in time to see the word _Killer_ flicker on the laptop screen.

I looked back at the boy, who gave me another pleading look before he vanished.

Just on the off-chance that he'd been telling me _his _name (I _know_, but I _had _to work every angle), I checked the school's past records for a student whose name was 'Killer', and then went through the yearbooks that they'd managed to get online. I drew a blank. Then I tried going through _all _the old class photos to try to locate the boy, but there were too many and the older ones were too blurred and grainy for me to be sure.

It looked like the simple hunt wasn't going to be so simple after all.

I gave up and used the time I had left to do the Math homework I'd forgotten about the day before. I finished just in time to shove the papers into a binder and hurry down to Ms. Gomez's classroom.

I liked Math and Ms. Gomez was a good enough teacher to keep me thoroughly engaged. By the time she dismissed us for lunch, I'd completely forgotten about Adam Jefferson and the mysterious ghost child. (_Yes_, Dean, only geeks let math distract them from mysterious ghost children. Will you stop _harping_ on that if I stipulate to it?)

Memory came screaming back as soon as I stepped out of the classroom. I'd barely taken a few steps down the corridor when I felt a sudden chill, and then I saw him, in the middle of the hallway, ignoring the students streaming by on either side and _through_ him and looking at me with wide, sad eyes.

I felt like I'd betrayed him.

That was sort of ridiculous – I mean, he was a _ghost_ – but I couldn't help the apologetic smile on my face. He met my eyes (I _know_ he met my eyes, Dean; I wasn't imagining it) and nodded.

He vanished.

Nobody else had seen him.

I thought hard, not really listening to Tom's chatter about casting for the Christmas play as we made our way to the cafeteria.

Dean was already sitting at the Senior table with the previous day's cheerleader (captain of the squad, Dennis muttered in my ear enviously – fortunately they didn't know Dean was my brother or I'd never have heard the end of it). He was wearing the grin he usually does when he's trying to get a girl, broad and bright and so fake I've never understood how girls fall for it. Nobody who's ever seen Dean smile for real could _possibly_ mistake his flirting grin for the genuine article.

He had his game face on, I realized as I watched him. I'd always known that nobody but me ever got to see Dean's soft side, but right then he looked so brash and so carefree that if I hadn't known him, I wouldn't even have believed he was the same person who snuck into my room in the middle of the night to check on me because he heard a rumour that I was sick.

Dean saw me looking, but the girl had her eyes on him so he didn't show any sign of recognition.

That didn't bother me. (No, it _didn't_, Dean. No, I _didn't_ flinch! What the hell do you remember about it, anyway? It was years ago and you have a mind like a colander for anything that isn't women's phone numbers.)

I couldn't imagine who the boy could be, if not Adam Jefferson. In all the records I'd been through, he was the only student who'd ever died on campus. (Kind of weird, actually, when you considered how long the school had been running, but I didn't think too much of it. Ellison Prep had always been an upper-class school. Healthy kids came there and received the best possible medical attention if they so much as stubbed a toe; it wasn't totally ridiculous that they had a low fatality rate.)

That was logical, but it left me with a problem.

Who was the boy?

Someone who'd died off campus, maybe, but had left one of his possessions lying around to hold him back? Someone who'd failed to come back from his winter ski trip with his family?

Tracking that information down would take _forever_. There had to be an easier way.

We had Drama after lunch (yeah, I know, it was the kind of school where they don't have Drama Club, they have Drama as a subject). The play was _The Importance of Being Earnest_ and normally I would've enjoyed the lesson, but I was too worried about the kid.

The _kid_. He'd had a name. He deserved to be known by his name, except that I had no idea what it was.

Drama was a double class. After that Dennis, Tom and Katy went to the Biology lab while Melinda and I had English Lit.

Fortunately that was the last lesson.

When it was over I hurried back to my room, stopping only to grab an apple from the cafeteria. I had a few hours before dinner and I wanted to spend them usefully. The urge to help the ghost child was getting stronger by the minute. I didn't know why, but I had a feeling that it was _very_ important for me to understand what he was trying to say.

After two hours of searching the school's records, I knew one thing. (And I _didn't_ hack them, Dean. Summers gave me the passwords. What do you mean _why_? He did it because he wanted me to figure out what the hell was going on and I told him I needed them as a prerequisite.)

Something was very wrong.

The school's history was too neat. Too perfect. It was nearly a hundred years old, and the only serious illness ever recorded on campus was the pneumonia that had claimed the life of Adam Jefferson.

A freaking _school_.

I mean, not even an outbreak of measles or chicken pox. Freaking _nothing_.

What were the odds of that?

I had to talk to Dean.

I went to his room. The door was open a crack, and I could hear voices from inside.

_Crap._ Dean wasn't alone.

I stood outside, wondering what to do, half-expecting the door to open and Dean to come out because of big brother radar or whatever the hell. (And you notice how it _didn't_ work that time, Dean? The one time it would actually have been useful to – crap. No. _No_, I didn't mean it like that. I'm sorry. I'm _sorry_. _God._)

Anyway, the door did open, but it wasn't Dean.

(_Yes_, you're still an awesome brother.)

It was a guy –

(_Yes_, I trust you to take care of me.)

– in Dean's class. He was –

(_No_, I'm not still mad. Now shut up and let me finish a freaking sentence.)

– tall. Or at least, I thought he was tall then. Looking back on it now, he was even shorter than _Dean_. Chest like a barrel and arms to match. I had a feeling his name was Mark.

"Hey," Mark said. He didn't exactly sound _unfriendly_, but something in his tone warned me not to stick around. "What are you doing here? Freshman, aren't you?"

"Um," I said, thinking desperately. Where the hell was Dean when I needed him?

As though in answer, Dean came out, too. I felt my heart lift –

But Dean looked at me uncomprehendingly. "Davis, isn't it? What are you doing here?"

Despite my nervousness, I was impressed. I hadn't realized Dean was that good an actor.

"I got lost," I made up. (Seriously, what other explanation could I possibly have given? And I was a new kid. It was plausible.)

"Uh-huh. You need directions, shrimp?"

"No," I said slowly. "I can find my way back."

"Maybe one of us should _walk _you back," sniggered the guy whose name might have been Mark. "Wouldn't want the baby to lose his way _again_."

"Yeah, maybe," Dean agreed, with an unpleasant grin. "I'll do it."

My relief was short-lived. We'd barely turned the corner when Dean grabbed me, _lifted _me (this was in that very brief span of time when Dean was several inches taller than I was) and shoved me against the wall.

"Christo," I said automatically.

Dean smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. "It's me, Sam. Not a demon. What do you think you're doing?" His hands tightened on my upper arms. "You're going to give the game away. First making the puppy-eyes at me in the cafeteria –"

"I wasn't –"

"And now _this_. You're lucky they bought it. You might have blown our cover."

"I just wanted to –"

"_What?_" Dean growled.

"To _talk_. I needed to talk to you – about the case!" I added when Dean rolled his eyes. "Dean, I think there's something wrong. I saw the ghost and it's not Adam Jefferson –"

"Yeah? How do you know?"

"It doesn't look like his picture –"

"Kid died in the fifties, Sam. Cameras sucked."

"But –"

"No buts. We went through the records. _You _went through the records. Any other mysterious deaths?"

"No, but –"

"Any other deaths at _all_?"

"No, but, Dean –"

"Accidents? Kids blowing up the Chem lab? _Anything?_"

"Dean –"

"See? The Jefferson kid is the only option, and he probably looks different from his picture because they would've made him dress up to pose for the photo and he would've hated it. Just figure out what the kid left here and burn it so we can _go_. Or is that too hard for you?"

I gave up. Dean obviously wasn't going to listen. "Fine," I muttered.

He let me go. "Good."

Then he walked away, leaving me to go to the Freshman dining room.

We had a quiz scheduled for the next day, so there were no after-hours pool visits that night. It was Geography, and I hadn't been to a single one of those classes yet. After dinner we all went up to Melinda's room to study together. Curfew was ten, but the warden was understanding the night before a big test, so he only smiled indulgently when Dennis, Tom and I passed him on our way back to our rooms around twelve.

I knew as soon as I opened my door that there was someone else in the room.

I sighed as I went in. "What are you doing here?"

"Where the hell _were _you?" Dean demanded, not answering my question. "Do you know what _time _it is?"

"Since when do you care about rules?"

"Since when do you ignore them?"

"What are you doing here?"

Dean sighed. "I thought you might want to show me the picture of the kid – Adam Jefferson."

"What, the one that's useless because it was taken with a camera that sucked while he was fighting desperately to get away from the photographer?"

"Sammy."

I shrugged. "Fine." I shut the door, turned on the laptop, and changed into my PJs (oh, for – I was _fourteen_) while I waited for it to boot.

I was standing in my pyjama bottoms, unfolding the top, when Dean said, in a tiny, _tiny_ voice, "Sammy?"

I turned. I _really_ wasn't in the mood for crap just because Dean had randomly decided in the middle of the night that maybe I wasn't insane after all. "_What?_"

"Your…" He gestured in my general direction. "You should have _stopped _me." He looked a little sick as he gestured again, at my arm this time. "Why didn't you stop me?"

I looked down and saw that my arm was bruised – they were both bruised, actually, and I was pretty sure the purple marks would match Dean's fingers.

_Huh._

I remembered him grabbing me earlier. I hadn't thought he'd gripped that hard. Neither had he, obviously.

"Dean –"

By the time I got the second word out, Dean was in front of me, touching, like he needed to measure his fingers against the bruises and be certain the marks came from _his_ hands.

"I wasn't holding you that tight," Dean said, soft, _pleading_. "I would've _known_."

I shrugged. We'd given each other worse during training. I said as much, but Dean shook his head as he helped me into the shirt. "That's _training_. _This_ is me hurting you because I was in a bad mood. That doesn't _happen_, Sammy."

"OK," I said slowly. "Dean, it's OK."

"I'll get you ice."

"It's already bruised, that's not going to –" The expression on Dean's face stopped me short. I sighed. "OK. Get me ice."

Dean went out and came back in under a minute (literally) with a towel full of ice. (No idea where he got the towel, but it looked clean, so I didn't ask.) I told him everything I'd found while he iced the bruises, and then I showed him the picture of Adam Jefferson.

Dean looked doubtful. "And you're sure this ghost you saw is a different kid?"

"I'm _sure_, Dean."

"I don't like the sound of this. It's like – what's wrong?" It was only when Dean asked the question that I realized I had a headache again. I told him so. He scowled. "Last night, and now again? You must be coming down with something." Ignoring my protests that I was fine, he palmed my cheek and then my forehead. "Temperature's normal. Maybe you should get some sleep instead of skulking around all night."

"I wasn't _skulking_ –"

"That's enough talking. We can discuss this in the morning. You should get some sleep."

Dean must still have been feeling guilty about the bruises, because he sat on the bed and stroked his hand through my hair until I fell asleep.

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	3. Sam's a Horrible Storyteller

**Disclaimer: **Still don't own Sam and Dean.

Exams done! Yay!

For the reviews, thanks to godsdaughter77, darlingdarling, SparkieBunny, kiwimoonelmo, LH, SPN Mum, Lucydolly22, SandyDee84, criminally charmed, BranchSuper, nupinoop296, laurie31, MysteryMadchen, SamWin98, PutMoneyInThyPurse, hotshow, faye, emebalia, sarah, deanheart22, The Slightly Demented, doyleshuny, brynerose and AlElizabeth.

Thanks to Cheryl for keeping me to the plausible. ;-)

* * *

**Chapter III: Sam's a Horrible Storyteller. I'm Taking Over.**

Right. My turn.

The trouble with letting Sam tell stories is that he never gets to the _point_. He complains, he rambles, he stops to comment on random paintings and string theory and the psychology of vampires, he does pretty much _everything_ but actually tell people what happened.

And, in this case, he left out some very important facts about what _I _was doing. Not his fault, of course; he didn't know. Still, in the interests of complete disclosure (that's the lawyer term, right, Sammy?) I'm going to take a turn at this to explain stuff whenever Megatron decides to neglect important facts in favour of maundering about the nature of the cosmos.

So, Important Fact Number One: this was Sam's first solo hunt. I think he may have mentioned that, but only in passing and it was probably lost in the avalanche of random remarks. Dad was an hour's drive away, and I was right there, but we were just backup. It was Sam's job.

Important Fact Number Two: We really did think it was just a question of finding out which corner Adam Jefferson had stashed his 1950s porn collection in and burning it. I mean, come on, it was _Sam_. My kid _brother_. On my eighteenth birthday Dad had actually named me Sam's legal guardian in the event of anything ever happening to him. There was no way I'd even have considered letting Dad make this a solo job for Sam if I'd had even the tiniest suspicion of how out of hand it was going to get. (And, for the record, yeah, I _did _have the last word when it came to things concerning Sammy.)

Anyway, no matter what the Sasquatch tries to make you believe, the truth is that I'd never doubted his research or his powers of observation. The kid's annoying as hell, but he's _good _at what he does. He always has been. (Which reminds me – you are _so _going to tell me how you learnt to hack the FBI's servers before we're done with this, bitch.)

Important Fact Number Three: I _really _had no idea I'd clutched Sam hard enough to leave bruises. I don't think he's putting enough emphasis on that, or on how horrified I was when I saw them. Sam is my kid. (Yes, Sam, _is_.) Seeing my hands marked on his arms in purpling bruises was... Well, not something I ever want to see again.

After he fell asleep (and he was right that I was feeling guilty), I stayed where I was a little longer.

I hadn't been able to sleep the previous night anyway. I'd spent my entire life (or, well, the last fourteen years of it) falling asleep to the sound of Sam's even breathing. Or, if it was an insomnia night, to the sound of Sam's pissed-off breathing and the rustle of pages as he read a book. Whatever. One way or another, I was used to the sounds of _Sam_.

My big empty room with the soundproof walls was just depressing.

My hand stilled on Sam's head. Sam stirred, roused enough to say, "Go back before they catch you," and then promptly rolled over and went back to sleep with his forehead pushed against my knee.

When Sam was so deep that I was sure I could move without waking him, I left. Not to go back to my own bed. This was Sam's case, and I wasn't _openly_ going to interfere, but I _was _going to make sure there wasn't more going on than he could handle. (No, that _doesn't _mean I didn't trust you to handle one freaking non-vengeful spirit, Sam. It means I didn't trust the case to stay that simple.)

I had no idea where to begin, so I decided to make like Sam and headed to the library.

It was a lot bigger than I expected – a lot bigger than any library in any school I'd ever attended. I suppose I should've expected that, since everything about the school suggested _bigger_ and _more_.

The library was in a little building of its own, connected to the main school block by a broad passage. Most kids avoided the passage, preferring to take the gravel path through the lawn, but I didn't have time to admire natural beauties.

I hurried to the library. It was locked – fancy, state-of-the-art (for what Samantha calls the technological Dark Ages of the nineties) lock, too. This, in addition to being before Sam knew how to hack into government servers, was also before he was an expert lock-picker with his own set of custom-made tools. So I had to pick it myself. It took a while, but I got there in the end.

I went straight to the rack where they kept the school records.

I didn't know exactly what I was looking for, but I was pretty sure that if there was anything, it would be there.

I was intent on my job, so it was a few minutes before I realized I wasn't alone in the library.

One thing about being a hunter: you get used to the sounds of empty buildings. You know what it sounds like when the floor is creaking and curtains are rustling just _because_. You know what it sounds like when there's someone else in there with you _making _the floor creak and the curtains rustle.

Someone else was in there with me.

I shut the book I had open, turned off my flashlight, and got silently to my feet.

I heard a tiny sound from the stairs.

I padded softly in the direction of the staircase. Despite how quiet I was being the person must've heard me, because when I got there, he was waiting, hands on his hips.

"I've heard of students breaking curfew to use the pool or sneak some of that beer they think we don't know they hide in their studies," he said coolly. "First time I've seen someone breaking curfew to visit the library."

Clearly, this guy didn't know my brother. Equally clearly, he was a teacher. That meant I could talk my way out of serious trouble. I still needed to find out what _he _was up to, though. Like he'd said, students broke curfew for anyone of about fifty reasons, but teachers didn't sneak into the library and wander around with the lights out in the middle of the night.

I shrugged. "I had to study."

"In the dark?"

In answer, I flicked on the flashlight.

In its yellow beam I could see the man's face.

Jacobi. Daryl Jacobi.

I didn't have anything to do with him, but Sam was in his English Lit class. And, before you ask, yes, of _course _I knew all Sam's classes and his teachers. I always did, no matter which school we went to, and in this one, with a _case_? You really think I was going to let unauthorized people have access to my brother? My scrawny, fourteen-year-old, not-yet-the-size-of-a-tank brother?

I'd already made a few discreet inquiries about Jacobi. He'd been described as a nice guy, a little strict about deadlines and prone to handing out Ds.

Sam hadn't even had a B+ in his entire school career – I was pretty sure he'd be safe from Jacobi's Ds.

"So, what were you studying, then, Mr..." Jacobi looked at me questioningly.

"Peters," I supplied. "Dean Peters. I was studying History."

"You take History. With whom?"

There he had me. I could've named Sam's history teacher for him, and also told him the details of her prior employment, how many children she had, and where she was planning to go skiing over Christmas break. But the Senior History teacher? I didn't have a clue.

I opened my mouth to bluff my way out of it, but Jacobi wasn't buying it.

"I think we need to talk, Dean."

And _that _is Important Fact Number Four, which Sam would _never _have told you: When I wound up sitting in a teacher's office in the middle of the night, it was _not _voluntary. Even _Sam _isn't that big a geek.

However it happened, ten minutes later, I was sitting in Jacobi's office.

He sat across from me, leaning forward on the desk, trying to look sympathetic and understanding.

_Yeah,right._

One thing Sam had perfected even at fourteen – had perfected at freaking _four _(and that's months, not years) – was the eyes. (I'm not talking about the puppy eyes. Sam didn't have to _perfect_ those; from the day he was _born _he's known how to make me feel like I kicked a baby animal in its soft underbelly.)

No, even then Sam had perfected the I-feel-your-pain, tell-me-all-about-it-you-brave-little-soldier eyes.

Jacobi's? Not a patch on them. He just looked creepy.

"Dean," Jacobi said gently. "I can't help you if you don't trust me. What were you doing in the library?"

I was about to make a snarky comment when I saw something – I don't know what it was – something in his face, maybe. For just a moment, it was like he'd let his guard and his mask slip and I saw the man behind it. Not in a pansy way, obviously, but…

Well, I knew what I saw in Jacobi's eyes. It was the look of a man who'd seen more than he wanted to and fought more than anybody should have to, and was getting ready for another battle.

It was the look I saw in Dad's eyes, sometimes, or in the eyes of one of the hunters we sometimes came across.

I decided to trust Jacobi.

_Not with everything._ I'd seen that hint of truth, he'd _let _me see it, and that meant I was willing to give him the trust I'd give another hunter. I'd tell him who I was and tell him about the case (as much as I could without sounding insane) and ask if he'd seen or heard anything. I wasn't, absolutely not, not _ever_, going to trust him with Sam.

I didn't trust anyone with Sam.

I said, carefully, "I'm not a student. Not really."

"I didn't think so." Jacobi leaned forward, resting his elbows on his desk. "You're a hunter. Aren't you?" Before I could grab my knife, he held up his hands. "I'm a friend. I'm not going to out you to anyone if you're here on a job."

"If I – who are you?" I demanded.

"My name really is Daryl Jacobi. I'm not a hunter, but my wife was. I met her when I was on holiday in Europe with my parents. My father was killed by a lamia." I made an apologetic noise. Jacobi shook his head. "It was years ago. Anyway, Zoë was the hunter who came to clean up the mess, one thing led to another, and…"

"So where is she now?" I asked.

"Dead." He sighed. "She left her home for me, moved to California, became an American citizen… But she couldn't stop being a hunter. It was what she was. It was dangerous, and I _begged _her to stop, but she said she couldn't rest while innocent people were in danger. A werewolf ripped her apart five years ago." Jacobi looked down at his desk, eyes glinting too bright. "She was pregnant."

Sam would've known what to say to that. I just sat there like an idiot until Jacobi looked up at me again.

"Are you really a teacher?"

_That's a good question to establish your empathy for the grieving man, Dean. Brilliant._

"I was never a hunter." Jacobi smiled. "I helped Zoë with the research sometimes, but that was all. Do you have a job here?"

"There's been a ghost sighting," I said. "It's not vengeful yet, but I'd like to take care of it before it gets that far."

"A ghost? Adam Jefferson?"

"You know about him?"

"It's not the first time someone's seen him. It's a popular ghost story for Halloween night. I can tell you, if you like."

"Yes, please."

Jacobi relaxed, clasping his hands on the desk in front of him. "Back in the fifties, Ellison took younger children – there was an elementary school as well, not just a high school as there is now. Adam Jefferson was a student at the elementary school. He was a brilliant boy, they say, and if he'd lived he would have been one of the great men of our country. One day he fell in the gym and cracked a few ribs. Very badly, badly enough that he damaged one of his lungs. He recovered, but he was never really healthy again. A few months later he came down with double pneumonia. He didn't even last a week after that."

I shivered. I couldn't help imagining Sam pale and wheezing in a hospital bed.

Jacobi nodded. "They say it was horrible. He knew he was dying and he didn't want to die. He was terrified. He cried and pleaded and begged – with his parents, with the nurses, with God, with anyone he thought would listen. His parents were wealthy and they did everything they could, but sometimes the best doctors can't do anything. Adam Jefferson died. Frightened of the beckoning darkness, desperately wanting to live, he died." He met my eyes. "They say, if you spend a night in the room where he died, you can hear him crying."

Ten minutes later, I was back in Sam's room, pulling him into my arms. Sam protested drowsily, but I ignored it, and a few seconds later he fell asleep again.

I relaxed, letting myself feel the comforting puffs of his breath on my collarbone.

Jacobi's story had spooked me more than I would ever admit aloud. Maybe it was the way he told it, his voice rising and falling in the dim light of the desk lamp. Maybe it was how raw with pain his eyes still were over his dead wife. Whatever it was, I couldn't stop imagining Sam with damaged lungs, Sam with pneumonia, Sam begging me to save him while I sat helplessly by his hospital bed.

I held Sam closer, murmured something soothing into his hair when he stirred.

I was calling Dad in the morning. Ghost, no ghost, didn't matter. I wasn't putting Sam at risk. We were done with this job. If it was that important, Caleb could come by and sort it out himself.

* * *

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	4. How Dean's a Giant Girl

**Disclaimer:** Not mine.

Um… Yeah, sorry about the wait, everyone. I'm travelling and I was having WiFi issues. Finally got it working last night, so here's the new chapter. Enjoy, and I hope you'll find it worth the wait. ;-)

Thanks to the people who reviewed Chapter III: laurie31, embelalia, gotyu, sarah, doyleshuny, murphy9202, SandyDee84, Tamara, LucyDolly22, BranchSuper, brynerose, sammynanci, The Slightly Demented, HP4eva121995, SPN Mum, kellywinchester, CeCe Away, SamWin98, godsdaughter77, giacinta, kiwimoonelmo, caramelcandylover, Sparkiebunny and KlutzyHanyou.

Thanks to Cheryl for being awesome.

And… On we go.

* * *

**Chapter IV: How Dean's a Giant Girl**

And Dean calls _me _the girl.

I woke up to pre-dawn light outside the window and Dean's arms still around me. For a moment I was thoroughly disorientated – waking up to feel Dean right next to me usually meant I'd been mauled almost to death by something we'd been hunting, but I felt perfectly fine.

Then I remembered.

Then I was puzzled, because what the _hell_?

"What the hell?" I asked Dean.

I felt him shake his head, and then he stroked my back. Gently, like he was trying to comfort me. I wasn't sure why exactly he thought I needed comforting, but with Dean it's usually better to just go with the flow. Play along and eventually you'll figure out what's bothering him.

So I settled myself against him, shutting my eyes again.

Dean sighed. "I just need you to be safe, Sammy. That's it."

"OK," I agreed.

"So you have to take care of yourself. Promise me. No ignoring broken ribs and punctured lungs."

"I don't think you can _ignore _a punctured lung, Dean."

"Sammy."

"Yeah, OK." I rubbed his chest, my fingers brushing over the amulet that brash, cool, doesn't-care-about-a-damn-thing Dean Winchester hadn't taken off since the day I'd given it to him. "I'll be careful."

Dean sighed into my hair. "I have to go now, kiddo."

"I know. Almost morning."

"You be careful. Don't take any stupid risks."

I felt a light pressure on the top of my head, and then Dean was gone.

I glanced at the clock. I could get in another hour's sleep before I had to hit the shower, or I could do some research. I decided on the research. I felt a strong urge to help the mysterious boy.

The history of the school that I'd checked when Caleb had told Dad about the case had said Ellison had stopped taking students under fourteen in 1970. And the boy was definitely under fourteen. That meant – either he wasn't a student, which was unlikely, or he'd been haunting the place for nearly thirty years at the very _least_.

I shivered in sympathy.

I hadn't bothered to look into why the school had stopped taking under-fourteens earlier, since I'd assumed Adam Jefferson was the spirit and he'd died long before that had happened. But now that I knew he wasn't, I decided that was the best place to start. Ellison was a good school, after all – exclusive and highly-regarded by the people in power. Schools like that didn't just decide that two-thirds of their student population wasn't necessary anymore.

The more I looked, though, the less I found. Summers hadn't been principal then, obviously; it had been a man called Culver. He was quoted as saying it was a difficult decision but he was sure the community would understand why he had to do it.

Nineteen seventy.

I did the math.

A school like this had to have a lot of staff – cooks, janitors, probably a whole army of gardeners to manage the grounds. There was bound to be _someone _still around who'd been there in 1970 – it wasn't that long ago. I just had to find them and get them to talk.

Deciding to do that in the next break I had, I grabbed my clothes and hurried out. I had first-period Geography, and there was no sense being late for a test.

At breakfast, though, everyone had forgotten about the test. Melinda was missing; Katy told us she'd been taken ill overnight and was in the charge of the school nurses.

"She thought it was just her allergies again," she said in a hushed whisper. "I mean, she was _fine _when were studying, just had a runny nose, and that's been happening to her all term – all the _time_, when she's here. Something about the weather… But then…"

"How did you know she was sick?" Dennis asked.

"She banged on the wall between our rooms. I heard her. If I hadn't…" Katy shuddered. "Nurse Barton was on duty last night. She took care of Melinda when she had the flu. She brought in a wheelchair and took her to –"

Katy broke off abruptly, looking at something behind me.

I turned.

Ms. Gomez was standing there, frowning at us.

"Gossiping?" she said. "I thought Nurse Barton warned you not to do that, Katy. Melinda is being given the best of care and she's going to be fine. There's no reason to cause a panic."

Katy apologized meekly, and for the rest of breakfast we discussed the chief imports and exports of South America.

When it was time for the quiz, though, I don't think anyone could concentrate on it. I know _I _couldn't. My eyes kept wandering to Melinda's empty chair.

There was no reason to believe there was anything _wrong_ about it. Kids got sick, even rich kids. It happened all the time. And Melinda had been sniffling for a while. She might have been coming down with whatever she had for a few days without realizing it.

I handed in my paper, sure I wasn't going to scrape more than a B. I was about to gather my books and leave for the gym when a student came in with a note for Mr. Wright. He took it, glanced at it, and then looked up. "Sam Davis?" I nodded. "Principal Summers wants to see you."

I hurried down to the principal's office, unable to imagine what I'd done that could possibly be getting me into trouble _already_.

I knocked.

The voice that told me to come in wasn't the principal. It was –

I pushed open the door.

"Dad."

"Sammy."

Dad was sitting in one of the chairs in front of the principal's desk. Dean was sitting on the couch off to the side. Summers himself was sitting behind his desk, watching me with a slight frown.

"Dad?" I asked. "What's going on?"

"Dean says this case is getting out of hand," Dad said. "He thinks we should call it off. Or maybe we should deal with it together." I looked at Dean, feeling betrayed. He'd called Dad and told him he thought I couldn't handle it? My first solo hunt? Without even _discussing _it with me?

Dean flushed, refusing to meet my gaze.

"Sam?" Dad prompted. "What do you think?"

"You're asking me what I think?" I asked, because _there _was a first.

"It's your case," Dad said reasonably. "You've been doing the research. I'm not going to decide anything without hearing what you think about it."

"Oh."

Dean moved. Still not looking at me, he scooted to the side on the couch. The intention was clear.

For a moment, I was tempted to ignore the peace offering. Dean had had no right –

But I could yell at him about that later. This wasn't about Dean stepping on my toes. (Yes, you _did_, Dean. Don't deny it. That was _supposed _to be _my _case.) It was about us presenting a united front, even to Dad. Maybe especially to Dad.

I moved to the couch and sat down. As far from Dean as I could, because I wasn't forgiving him at _all_, but on the same couch, because he was still my big brother. (Well, obviously I wasn't mad enough to revoke your big brother rights, moron.)

"Well, Sam?" Dad asked.

(No, I'll never be mad enough to revoke your big brother rights.)

"I think the ghost isn't Adam Jefferson," I said. "I don't know who it is, but I can find out. He's not hurting anyone. I've seen him and he just looked like he wanted to be set free. He didn't seem vengeful."

"Sam, you know ghosts can cross that line in the blink of an eye."

"Yes, sir. But I think I can handle this one."

Dad nodded. "Dean?"

Dean looked at Dad. Firmly, the way that meant Dean knew what was best for me and Dad wasn't going to make him change his mind. "OK.I don't like it, but if Sam really wants to do this, OK." He drew in a breath. "But if it starts to look sticky, we're done. No debate." He looked at me, apologetic but not backing down. "I'm not risking _you_ for this job, Sammy. It's not worth it."

(_Sure_ you made it _sound _reasonable. I'm just saying you'd never have let anyone talk _you _out of a job for any reason at all.)

The rest of the day's classes kept me too busy to think too much. I saw Dean in the cafeteria at lunch time. He looked like he wanted to say something, but the cheer squad captain was practically sitting in his lap. I was kind of relieved; I was still mad at Dean and I didn't want to deal with an attempt to be friendly right then.

News about Melinda came after lunch. She had flu – the normal kind, not the dangerous kind. She would be back with us in a few days. Meanwhile, we were all warned to be careful and to report to one of the school nurses at once if we felt sick or unwell in any way. (Yes, Dean, I _knew _that if I felt sick I was supposed to report to you and not one of the nurses. It's not like you ever let me forget that!)

I'd asked Summers that morning if he had any idea why the school had started restricting itself to students over fourteen. He'd shrugged and said nobody really knew anymore.

After my classes ended, I decided to try to pump the gardeners. I was sure there must be dozens of them, and at least one or two who'd worked Ellison's gardens for thirty or forty years and might remember what happened in 1970.

I was slipping out the side door when a hand descended on my shoulder.

I turned to face my big brother. "_What?_"

Dean looked at me calmly and a little apologetically. "I know you're mad, Sammy –"

"You _think_?"

"And I'm sorry," he went on as though I hadn't interrupted. "I should've discussed it with you, but I knew you wouldn't want to let this one go, and I panicked."

"You panicked," I repeated in disbelief.

"Jacobi – your Lit teacher – hauled me off in the middle of the night to tell me a story about how Adam Jefferson died of pneumonia after he broke his ribs. And you've been having headaches. I – I don't want you to be the next victim."

I sighed. I didn't like it, but I understood. I couldn't stay mad at Dean for _being _Dean.

"OK," I said quietly. "We're good."

Dean nodded. "Thanks." He released me and took a step back. "Sam if you need help – no, I'm not saying you can't handle it. But you help Dad and me with research, don't you? Doesn't mean we're incapable hunters, it means we know we've got a scrawny kid who can do the research a lot better and quicker and save us a load of time. So… if you need me to do anything, you just ask." Dean's grin turned wicked. "You know, hot girls pumped for information, some cute librarian who won't give you a book you want –"

"Dean!"

Dean laughed and patted my back. "Go on, kiddo. I'll see you later."

I went outside, feeling suddenly a lot happier.

There was nobody in sight, but when Dean and I had arrived I'd seen a tool shed and I was pretty sure I'd find someone there. Maybe, if I was lucky, several someones.

I found the tool shed. It was empty, but clearly in use.

I sat down to wait.

Ten minutes later, a woman came in. Too young to be helpful: she couldn't be older than twenty. She raised an eyebrow when she saw me.

"Can I help you with something?"

"I was just taking a walk," I said. "And… You know… I thought I'd see what was here."

She looked deeply suspicious. "Look, if this is to do with one of your pranks up at the school, go get in trouble somewhere else. I don't have time to deal with the lecture I'll get from old Fitch if Summers calls him again about students sneaking liquor into the gazebo."

"Fitch?"

"Yeah. You don't know old Fitch? He's the head gardener. He's been here for _ever_. He's probably a hundred years old."

_Awesome._

"Where is he?"

When I went back to the main building an hour later, I had a lot more information about the school in general, but not the specific answer I needed. Fitch had been at least eighty and happy to talk, rambling about the principals he'd seen come and go and the good old days when kids came and _saw _the grounds sometimes instead of always sitting indoors with their video games.

When I'd mentioned the fact that the school had once taken younger children, he'd clammed up, refusing to say another word, even when I changed the subject.

Something was going on. Something had happened that had old Fitch terrified nearly thirty years later.

I had to find out what.

I went to the sick room to visit Melinda. Katy and Tom were there, too, wearing the face masks like the one Nurse Moreau had made me put on. Apparently they took infections very seriously at Ellison. Naturally. They couldn't afford a class action lawsuit from some of the country's most powerful individuals.

Melinda looked scarily sick. She looked like she'd lost a ton of weight, although it had been just a day since I'd last seen her, and there were dark circles under her eyes. Her skin was paler than the spotless white sheets on her bed.

"Don't," she said when she saw me looking. "I'm fine."

"You don't look fine," Katy said bluntly. "Are you sure you told the nurses everything?"

"What do you think I am, seven? Of course I told them everything. It's not exactly fun being stuck in a hospital bed, you know."

"I know. Sorry. I just – it's weird, you know? It came on so soon. And it's not like anyone else around here has had the flu recently."

"Yeah," Melinda said. "Yeah, I know." She shivered. "Is it getting cold in here?"

I stiffened. Knowing what I would see, half-afraid of seeing it, I looked up.

The ghost child was there, just out of sight. He met my eyes, shaking his head frantically to indicate that he wasn't doing anything to Melinda. I found myself believing him.

If not him, who?

Was Adam Jefferson's ghost floating around somewhere too?

We sat with Melinda as long as the nurses let us. Then we said good night and went down to dinner.

"You look tired," Katy told me as we sat down. "Is everything OK?"

"Oh… yeah. I've just not been sleeping that well."

"First few nights in a new place?"

"I guess so."

I turned down Tom's suggestion of video games in his room after dinner, citing the need to sleep. He nodded in understanding, not asking questions. I was grateful for that. I said good night to him and Dennis at Tom's door, and then took a detour to the library.

When in doubt, go to the library.

I took the back stairs to avoid meeting anyone – I was supposed to be tired out and sleeping, after all – so I was alone when I felt someone grab me from behind in the darkness. He shoved me against the wall and pushed his forearm against my throat, cutting off my air supply.

It was too dark for me to see his face.

"You've been asking questions," he hissed in my ear. I couldn't recognize the voice; it was low and rough, like he was trying to disguise it. "I don't like that."

I didn't have enough breath to respond. I pushed at him, but he stayed immovable.

"I could kill you right now," he said. "Snap your neck and bury you in some remote corner of the grounds. Nobody would ever know." He pushed harder, like he intended to do just that. "But I'm feeling generous, so I'll let it go this once. Consider it a warning. Don't ask questions."

Then he was gone and I was alone, gasping for air.

Screw the library. I needed Dean.

Dean was alone when I stumbled into his room, but he still looked annoyed. "_What_, Sam?"

"Somebody knows we're looking," I said. "He grabbed me – just now on the stairs. He choked me. I thought he was going to kill me, but he didn't."

I waited for the freak-out.

It never came.

Dean just looked at me. After a moment, he said, "_And?_"

"And I thought you'd want to know," I said finally.

"Well, you thought wrong. I _warned_ you this could get out of hand. But _no_, Sammy Winchester had to be the freaking _hero_ and do everything. _You _wanted this case. Now deal with it." Dean grabbed my wrist and pulled me closer. "You look fine, anyway," he said, examining my throat. "So somebody pushed you around. _Handle _it. Now go away. I have to study."

"You're studying?"

"Yeah. I shouldn't have to, considering I'm done with school, but someone has to watch out for your sorry ass and Dad couldn't pass for a student."

I was used to Dean's temper now and then, but flipping moods like this was totally unlike him. Something was off. Just like something was off with Melinda's flu, just like something was off about the whole place.

(Oh, for – fine. _Fine_, if that's the only way to make you shut up about it.)

I am aware that Dean did not, does not and never will consider the results of a test more important than my safety. I am further aware that he only suggested he did because of – well, you'll see.

(Big brothers are _hopeless_.)

I went back to my room and changed for bed. I didn't think it would be the best idea to try to find the library again.

When I took off my shirt, I saw my wrist. There were bruises forming where Dean had held it while he checked my throat.

But that was ridiculous. Dean hadn't even gripped very tightly. He'd just held me still, and I hadn't been struggling. There shouldn't be –

I whirled and looked in the mirror. If the imprint of Dean's hand was visible on my wrist, then my throat where the attacker had tried to choke me should be –

Unmarked. It was completely unmarked. Not even a little swollen.

What was going on?

* * *

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	5. How It All Made Sense

**Disclaimer: **Not mine.

For reviews, thanks to PutMoneyInThyPurse, sammynanci, laurie31, SandyDee84, HP4eva121995, caramelcandylover, emebalia, SamWin98, Lucydolly22, Sparkiebunny, CeCe Away, BranchSuper, brynerose, missingmikey, doyleshuny, Katy M VT, criminally charmed, giacinta, deanheart22, twomoms, darlingdarling, SPN Mum, christinebleu, The Slightly Demented, godsdaughter77, judyann, Scribble2Much, AlElizabeth and LutraShinobi.

Thanks to Cheryl, for listening and stopping me when I got too insane. ;-)

**General Warning:** Here on out, people might get killed. Not canon characters, of course.

* * *

**Chapter V: How It All Made Sense**

Dean didn't slip into my room to apologize that night.

I didn't sleep well, and I felt a headache starting when I woke up the next morning, but I dismissed it. There was a case to solve.

When I got to breakfast, there were three more empty seats at the table. Dennis told me in a hushed voice that Mary-Jo from Chem lab had come down with a bad viral, Chuck the future varsity quarterback had taken a cold shower the previous night and now had double pneumonia, and Kurt Otto had broken his leg falling out of bed (onto the thick Persian rug his parents had sent him for his birthday).

What the _hell_?

With four people missing, classes were subdued. Everyone seemed a little listless. Ms. Gomez shook her head and tutted about the flu bug going round, Mr. Jacobi tried to read us funny poems in an unsuccessful effort to make people laugh, and Ms. Sanders actually told us we could have a couple of extra days to hand in our next paper.

When lunchtime came, there were two more empty seats at the freshman table. Julia Arnold had collapsed in the middle of her Spanish verbs, and Rob Thomson had thrown out his back while doing a jumping jack.

Our table was also the only one to have empty chairs.

I stole a glance at Dean. He didn't look up. He hadn't looked at me since I'd come into the room, and that wasn't like him. No matter if we'd argued, no matter what he was doing, Dean always looked for me first. _Especially _with something like this going on. Now he and Natalya (I'd found out the cheerleader's name) had their heads bent together and Dean was whispering to her.

Under my shirt, my wrist and upper arms were bruised from Dean's hands.

(Oh, for – _fine_. I won't mention it again. _Ever._ _Then_ will you stop the guilt-trip?)

I needed to figure out what was happening.

I didn't have any afternoon classes, so as soon as lunch was done I hurried to my room. I might not be able to find out about Ellison's history, but students dropping like flies because of any of a variety of ailments? That I could probably track down.

I was struck by a sudden thought.

Timelines could change. Things like this becoming more potent, less potent, that could happen. Especially if we were dealing with a monster that had taken time to perfect its skills. After all, nobody had died yet. Maybe it wasn't _deaths _I needed to look for, but any mysterious or unexplained events. They might not even have made it to the papers. Maybe someone who'd studied at Ellison in the sixties could help me. Maybe –

I stopped short as the PA system made an announcement for everyone to assemble in their homerooms.

I went downstairs.

Mr. Jacobi was our homeroom teacher. He didn't say anything as the classroom filled. Well, partly filled, because there were six empty desks now. Close to a third of the class.

"What's this about?" I whispered to Tom, who had the seat in front of me.

"No idea, man," Tom whispered back. "He looks grumpy, though. Maybe they want to put us all in quarantine or something."

When the last student had come in, shut the door and taken her seat, Mr. Jacobi stood and came around in front of the teacher's desk. He looked very grim.

"Good afternoon," he said. "I… have an unhappy announcement to make." He glanced around the room, eyes pausing on the unoccupied chairs. "Melinda Sawyer worsened overnight. She died peacefully in her sleep an hour ago." His gaze turned sympathetic. "You won't have any more classes this week, of course. We're all available if you want to talk."

My blood ran cold.

Melinda was dead.

A girl I knew – a girl who'd been _nice _to me – was _dead_.

And I knew beyond a shadow of doubt that something supernatural had caused it.

Melinda was dead because I'd been reluctant to call her illness supernatural, I'd wanted to believe I was in a world where sometimes people got the flu and it was just the flu.

I responded automatically to Mr. Jacobi's gentle questions. Yes, I'd known her. Yes, I was sad. No, I didn't need to speak to a counsellor.

Fifteen minutes later he said we could go, although anyone who wanted to stay and talk to him was welcome to. I got to my feet, stumbling out of the classroom, making my way up to my room blindly.

This was my fault.

I pushed open my door, and let out a relieved sob when warm arms drew me in.

"Not your fault," Dean murmured into my hair. "Come here." He settled us in one of the chairs and pushed my head down to his shoulder. I wanted to protest that I wasn't a baby, but Dean's presence made some of the ache in my chest go away and right then I needed him. "Not your fault, Sammy… _Hey. _Sammy. Don't. It'll be fine. You'll figure this out and stop it. OK? _We'll _figure this out."

Dean stayed with me for half an hour, at the end of which I felt ready to deal with the case again.

He had to go to the gym – the Seniors were helping arrange a memorial for Melinda, and he'd already been missing for a while.

Before he went, he said, very seriously, "I'm not going to try to stop you working on this, Sam. I know how it feels when someone dies – evenif it's not your fault – and I get that you need to solve the case and gank the ghost. I'll help any way you need me to. We can call Dad if you like. Maybe once you've figured out what it is… Dad and I will both be a lot more useful after that. But, Sam?" He looked into my eyes. "I'm not trying to stop you, but promise me you'll be careful. Think about how I'll feel if I lose you."

Left alone, I got hold of the class lists from the late 1950s and the 1960s and started tracking the people down.

Some, I didn't even have to use the Internet. They were people I'd heard of, politicians and philanthropists and CEOs of Fortune 500 companies. Some I had to look up, and I generally discovered either that they were alive and well, or that they'd died of natural causes years after leaving school.

Some… Some were just missing.

This wasn't as shocking as it probably seems to anyone hearing this story now, because this was before Facebook, before Wikipedia, before the Internet was as complete and pervasive as it is today. If they'd just been normal kids, I wouldn't have given it a second thought.

And then I got the first hit.

Lily Matthews. Her mother had been a small-time movie star, her father a studio exec. She'd died of cholera – seriously, freaking _cholera_ – while spending Christmas break in her family's holiday home in Florida. Age eleven.

John Lewis Pearson. Took a tumble while ice-skating that somehow ended in a shattered skull. Dead before they could get him to hospital. Age nine.

Savannah Jennings. In training to be a gymnast, widely expected to represent the country at the Olympics one day. Suffered a heart attack while touching her toes in a warm-up exercise at home over the summer holidays. Age twelve.

Oh, God.

_Oh, God._

That was when I saw _it_.

The entry that I knew had to be the mysterious ghost child.

Tucker Lee Smith. Went home for Thanksgiving and died of _indigestion_ after eating too much turkey. Age twelve.

The pieces started to come together in my head. This, whatever it was, it needed them young. That was why it was only freshmen who were being affected. It needed them young…

Why? Innocence? Vitality? Virginity? There could be any number of reasons.

Tucker Lee was the last case I found. A few months after his death came Culver's announcement that the school wouldn't take students younger than fourteen anymore.

And now this.

My head was aching again. I rubbed it.

Then suddenly I was wracked with coughing. I put my hands to my mouth, trying to suppress the coughing fit –

I felt dampness on my fingers and pulled them away from my mouth.

They came away bloody.

_Crap._

I didn't bother to go to the nurses. I knew now that it was supernatural, and they couldn't do anything about that. For a moment I considered going to Dean – but, no, there was no sense freaking him out yet. (I'm _sorry. _Tell me when you think I've apologized enough.) There was someone else I had to talk to first. (It was _years _ago, Dean. You can't possibly still be mad.)

I pulled on an extra jacket – just in case – and went outside.

My legs were starting to get unsteady, and I had to stop when another fit of coughing overtook me (no blood, though, thankfully), but eventually I found myself in the tool shed again. Fitch was there – alone.

He looked at me irritably. "I thought I told you last time, I'm not answering any more silly questions."

"Wait!" I said before he could leave. "I know what happened – part of it. Something was killing students, wasn't it? The younger ones? Weakening them just before they were due to go home for vacations. And Principal Culver realized, but he couldn't figure out what was happening, and he didn't want to ruin the school's reputation, so he did the only thing he could do. He stopped taking younger students."

"You've worked it all out, why do you need me?"

"Because I don't know what's behind it." Fitch glared at me, and I pressed, "It's started again. You know that."

"I heard a girl died of the flu," Fitch said. "Doesn't mean anything went after her, son. Sometimes people just die. You get to my age, you realize that."

"And what about the other five students who are in the sick room right now? One of them could be dying as we speak. Are you going to say the same thing then? That sometimes people just die?" Fitch shrugged. I suppressed a frustrated noise; losing my temper wouldn't help. "_Listen _to yourself. God, you don't have to do anything. Just tell me what's behind this and I'll deal with it. You must know."

"I don't know anything, son. Best if you try not to, either."

I opened my mouth to argue more, and I started coughing again. This time it was worse, lasting longer and making my chest hurt. When I was done, there was blood on my jacket.

I looked up to find Fitch eyeing me warily. "You should get yourself to the nurse," he told me. "Looks like a pretty bad cough, son."

"You really think the nurse can help me?" When he didn't respond I shrugged in defeat. "Fine. If you won't help me, there's nothing I can do about it. I hope you feel good about yourself when half the Freshman class are dead in their beds."

I was halfway back to the school when the ghost child appeared again. He was hovering a few feet away, off the path, looking at me with something very much like sympathy.

"I'm not going to die!" I told the ghost in exasperation. "I just need to figure out what's going on."

The ghost took a couple of steps towards me and then backed away, clearly wanting me to follow. When I hesitated, he came forward again, brushing my hand and making me feel like I'd just jumped in a frozen lake. He backed off, holding my gaze.

I sighed. I was probably dying of some weird supernatural-induced ailment. How much worse could I make it by listening to a harmless ghost child?

I followed the boy off the path and away to a secluded corner of the garden. It looked like nobody had been there for _years_. The grass was sparse, but otherwise it was overgrown. Ivy covered the trunks of the trees and the stones were green with moss.

The boy – Tucker, I knew his name now – stood over a single, flat stone half-buried in the dirt.

"Under that?" I asked, moving closer. Tucker took a step back, and I knelt and pulled up the stone.

It was hard work. I was tired, out of breath, and although it wasn't really very cold (I mean, _California_) the dirt was still packed harder than it would be in spring. It took me almost fifteen minutes to dig the few inches it took to hit paydirt.

The slim, leather-bound notebook was sealed in a plastic bag, probably what had kept it from deteriorating. I tore the plastic open – I was sure the notebook wasn't old enough to be damaged by the exposure – and took it out. When I flipped it open, a square of hard paper fell into my lap.

I picked it up. It was an old photograph, yellowed around the edges.

Adam Jefferson smiled up at me, a happy twelve-year-old.

I looked at Tucker. "What's this about?"

Tucker just looked at me without talking, so I looked at the notebook. The first three pages were covered in writing in a tiny, cramped hand. By then my headache was so bad I could barely see straight, and breathing was getting difficult, so it took me a couple of minutes to realize it was Latin, and a couple of minutes more to work it out.

And then, in a sudden revelation, I knew.

I knew what was going on. I knew everything. I even had a pretty good idea _who_.

I slid the notebook and the photograph back into the pouch and got to my feet. "Thanks," I told Tucker. "I'll take care of it."

He smiled at me, flickering out of sight.

I went back inside. I wanted to run, but I didn't have the energy anymore.

Inside the building, Dean was the first person I met. I was relieved. I _would _need backup, now that I'd worked it out, and I hadn't looked forward to traipsing all over the school looking for him.

"Dean –"

"Shut up!" Oh, awesome. This time it was bizarro-Dean. "Where have you been?"

"Research. Dean, I asked –"

"We're back on that stupid theory of how it's not the Jefferson kid? Sam, it's one harmless ghost. How hard is this?"

"One harmless… What about Melinda?" I demanded.

"Kid's dead, Sam. I'm sorry, but it happens. Doesn't mean there was anything supernatural about it. Now how about you stop wasting time and do the job?"

It made sense.

Of course it made sense. Even a place like Ellison – maybe _especially _a place like Ellison – couldn't have wholesale student deaths without it becoming common knowledge, unless whoever was doing it had some way of making sure nobody thought of it. Some form of mind control. Not permanent, that would arouse suspicion and was probably difficult to work on that many people. Just enough to let him get away with it, zapping people as needed – or when he could get an opportunity.

That explained Dean's mood swings, and why he alternated between believing me and thinking I was insane.

But why hadn't it been tried on me?

I had a pretty good idea of the answer. Dean's hands bruising my arms, the headaches – it had started almost as soon as I'd arrived. Whatever was doing this probably couldn't risk putting the whammy on its victims. Maybe it needed them untouched.

"Sam!" Dean snapped, hands on my shoulders, pushing me back against the wall. Apparently this thing increased aggressiveness, too. "You actually capable of taking care of this or you need me to hold your hand?"

I needed help, but Dean wouldn't be able to help right then.

I shook my head. "I'll be fine, Dean."

I went down to the office to make a phone call.

And…The lines were down. As were the cell phone services, according the school office.

_Awesome._

Dean was under some kind of spell, and I couldn't contact Dad. I mean, yeah, I spoke to Summers, who promised to send someone to town to talk to him, but it would be hours before he got here, and –

The PA system cut into my thoughts to request that all students report to their homerooms.

I suppressed a shiver of foreboding.

I didn't think we _had _hours.

There were two more empty desks in homeroom. Dennis had bronchitis, and Katy had slipped in the shower and broken her hip.

Mr. Jacobi gave out that news with a sombre air, and then he said, "But that's not the reason we asked you to come here. Mr. Otto – Kurt – broke his leg, as you're all aware." He sighed. "He had surgery to repair it earlier today. The surgical cut became infected and Kurt died of septicaemia some time ago."

I didn't bother to stay for the consolatory talk.

I slipped out and went to my room. I had the notebook, I needed to study it, try and figure out how to reverse what was happening.

Just the climb up the stairs exhausted me, though, and by the time I was in my room I couldn't do much more than collapse to my knees and cough.

I didn't bother to mop up the blood when I was done. There was no time. Two kids dead already, and who knew how many were sick and not saying anything because they were terrified?

I wiped my hands on my jeans and opened the notebook. If I could just figure out exactly what he'd done…

But the words were swimming in front of my eyes.

Everything went dark.

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	6. How Ghosts Can Be Helpful

**Author's Note:** So… This is up sooner than intended. I have a long weekend spent mostly in planes and airports ahead of me, and enough people threatened me with dire consequences if I left them hanging on that last cliffie that I didn't want to risk not updating till late next week.

That said, I don't know if you'll find the end of this chapter any less nerve-wracking. ;-)

For the reviews, thanks to emebalia, kellywinchester, KlutzyHanyou, godsdaughter77, SPN Mum, Jeanny, Sparkiebunny, Ginnylove9990, sarah, caramelcandylover, AlElizabeth, judyann, Phoenix80hp, peace n' paris, SandyDee84, casammy, Fate, missingmikey, and all the anonymous reviewers.

Thanks to Cheryl for all the help.

**Disclaimer: **Nothing's mine.

* * *

**Chapter VI: How Ghosts Can Be Helpful**

As always, my sense of smell came back first. I tried to open my eyes, but my eyelids were too heavy.

I mumbled a name, expecting an answering whisper and a hand stroking through my hair.

Instead, I heard a soft voice say, "Can you tell what he's saying?"

"It sounded like Don. Nobody in the freshman class called Don, is there?"

"No… Maybe he means Dennis?"

"The kid with bronchitis? Maybe. I've seen them hanging around together. But it could be a woman's name. Donna? Diane?"

"Maybe a family member. Has anyone been able to contact his family yet?"

"No, all the phone lines are still down. So are the Internet connections. Summers sent a couple of people into town to call all the families."

I tried to open my eyes again. Again no luck.

Again, I mumbled Dean's name. I wanted Dean – I _needed _Dean. I was in a strange place and my body was refusing to respond to me and I felt like someone was driving red-hot spikes through my chest and my head. Dean would know how to make it all stop.

"Who do you want, sweetie?" I heard one of the voices say. "We'll try to get them for you."

Dean. I wanted Dean. Was that so hard for them to understand?

I drifted off again, feeling terrified and alone.

I woke up in darkness. My head was pounding, spinning. I couldn't think. I couldn't _breathe_; it felt like a hand had my lungs in a vice-like grip.

And I was alone.

For a few minutes all I could do was lie there and shiver and try not to cry. It wasn't like I hadn't been hurt before, wasn't like I hadn't been close to _death_ before, but I'd never been facing it _alone_. Dean had always been there, stroking my hand or my head and telling me dirty stories to make me laugh while the nurses pretended not to listen.

Why wasn't Dean there?

Maybe it had gone after Dean.

That thought was enough to jolt me to full awareness.

Dean could be in danger. There was a time to lie in sick room beds and feel sorry for myself, and this wasn't it. I knew what was going on, I could stop it. I _had _to stop it before someone else died.

I pulled the IV out of my arm and sat up in bed. The sudden movement made me dizzy. I clutched the bedcovers while I waited for the feeling to subside.

I was the same room where we'd come to visit Melinda, a long room with a row of beds. Other than mine, nine were occupied.

Looked like he'd been busy.

I looked around for the duty nurse. She was in a chair on the far side of the room, dozing. Must've been a long day for the nurses, too.

Perfect. So if I could just stay quiet, I could get out without waking anyone.

My head still spun, but I managed to get out of bed. Someone had changed me into my PJs. I didn't bother with shoes: I was wearing socks and it wasn't like the school hallways were going to be littered with broken glass to pierce unwary feet.

I managed, somehow, to get out of the room without making enough noise to wake the nurse. I considered going back to my room for the notebook and photograph, but I decided against it. It was likely Dean or Principal Summers had been into the room and taken them for safekeeping, and I didn't have the strength to walk very far in any case.

I needed to figure out where _he_ – and now I knew what was happening, the notebook had left me in no doubt – was.

I didn't have the energy to go running all over the school though.

Maybe…

"Tucker?" I tried tentatively. "You think you could, maybe, help me out here? I need to know where he is." There was no response. "You want me to stop him, don't you? That's what you meant the first time I saw you – you were trying to tell me he was a killer. He killed you. He's killed other people, too. I can stop him." I felt the room get a little chilly. "Come on, Tucker," I urged. "We can stop him together."

The boy appeared, flickering unsteadily.

Without a word, he started to glide along the corridor. He was going slowly enough for me to keep up.

We went through the building, down a couple of flights of stairs to the basement (figured) and Tucker stopped in front of a closed door.

"Behind that," I said. "OK. Need something to use as a weapon, though."

Tucker cut his eyes to the left. I followed his gaze and saw a supply cupboard. I opened it –

For a moment I was puzzled – it just looked like a normal supply cupboard. Then I realized that it was suspiciously shallow. I rapped on the back, and heard a hollow sound.

"Awesome."

It took me a few seconds to find the spring lever that opened the back. When I finally did, I couldn't hold back a gasp. It was a hunter's treasure-trove – knives, guns, machetes, crucifixes in a neat pile, boxes labelled "iron" and "silver" and "salt"…

I grabbed one of the knives. It had obviously been years since anyone had opened that back panel, and the guns would probably backfire on me after all this time.

I stumbled back to the door, wondering how I was going to open it. Then I felt another wave of dizziness, and leaned against the wall. I tried to suppress the coughing fit – he'd hear me, and I couldn't risk him hearing me – but it came, and I doubled over, on my knees on the ground, choking and spitting blood onto the floor.

I heard the door open.

There was my answer, if not in the way I expected.

"Well, well, well," a cool voice said. "If it isn't little Sammy, come to join the party at last. We've been waiting for you." A pair of shoes came into my line of vision. "Oh, but you look unwell. Are you sure you should be out of bed?"

A hand came down and grabbed my collar. I was hauled to my feet, which made the agony in my head and chest intensify.

"Good evening, Sam."

I stared in to Mr. Jacobi's cold eyes.

Just beyond him, I could see an altar set up in the room. I realized it was directly beneath the sick room.

There were four people, tied up, sitting in a row by the wall to my left. Dean was one of them, and the other three were Seniors too.

Dean met my eyes, guilt and terror and apology clear on his face.

Jacobi stroked a hand down my jaw.

The knife was on the floor where I'd dropped it. There was no point lunging for it; I was too weak and he would overpower me in seconds. But he was looking at me, sure I was no threat, sure he had me, and that gave me a small advantage.

Holding Jacobi's gaze, I gave the knife a tiny nudge with my foot. Just enough that when he shut the door, he would sweep it into the room.

Right then, it was the best I could do.

Jacobi laughed, fingers suddenly tightening. I flinched, knowing there'd be another bruise there.

He hauled me into the room, pulling the door shut behind him. The knife slid in, the scrape of steel on cement inaudible under the creaking of the ancient door.

I looked at Dean. He gave me a tiny nod.

Jacobi smiled and pushed me ahead of him, dropping me into a chair next to the altar. I saw Tucker flicker into existence behind him.

"Well, since you're here, Sam, you might as well stay here until we're done."

The knife was by the door. I glanced at Tucker, willing him to understand. The knife was steel, not iron. Maybe that would be enough.

Tucker flickered out of sight.

It would have to be enough.

And I had to keep Jacobi distracted.

"You know you're never going to get away with it, right?" I told him. "You kill me, my Dad won't _let _you get away with it." I didn't say anything about my brother. Maybe he didn't know Dean was my brother. If so, there was no need to let it slip.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Dean looking a little hurt. He was probably upset that I was suggesting he was going to leave anything left of Jacobi for Dad to hurt.

"Only if Daddy knows where to find his boy's killer."

Another coughing fit came up. Jacobi took a step back and watched impassively until I was done, heaving unsteady breaths.

"That's it," Jacobi murmured when it was over. "How long do you think _you _have left, Sammy? I'd put it at a few hours at the outside. And then all your classmates, even more innocent than you are." He smiled and crouched, cupping my cheek in one hand, then drawing back and slowly, deliberately giving me a hungry smile. "The only thing sweeter than a child's blood is a child's soul, Sam. And I'm getting both from you."

I saw Dean stiffen, glaring at Jacobi, and I felt a little flare of warmth in my chest.

"And the thing is," Jacobi went on, crouching to be at my eye-level, "I _really_ want to teach you a lesson about meddling, Sam. I do. But if I hurt you, it'll disturb the ritual, and we can't have that."

"This is the first time since Tucker Smith," I said, needing to understand that part. "I don't get it. How did you manage all this time? And why now?"

"Is it that hard to connect the dots? Each soul gives me some… time. By the time I got to Tucker and had to stop for a while, I had a fair amount. But it's running out." He grimaced. "And it's harder with older children. But I didn't want to move, as long as I could manage." He patted my cheek again. "And I _can_ manage. Don't worry about that."

"And old Fitch? You have him terrorized too?"

"Fitch?" Jacobi laughed a demented, delighted laugh. "You spoke to Fitch? Oh, that's so… _precious_. Just like a detective novel." He pulled my head down and said softly, "Fitch hates what I'm doing, but he's never going to give me away, boy. You see, he's my father. Not long after the… incident… he changed his name and moved to California. He keeps trying to talk me out of it."

I let out a breath. That explained Fitch.

Tucker appeared next to Dean, softly dropping the knife by his tied hands.

This was it. It was in Dean's hands now.

I looked back at Jacobi, feeling more confident than I had since waking up in the sick room bed. Things still looked bleak, but in Dean's hands was the safest place for my life to be.

I had another coughing fit. When it was over I slumped in the chair, breathing raggedly, each gulp of air feeling like it was searing my lungs on the way down.

Jacobi laughed.

"Just think. I get at least another two hours of this. Watching you die slowly… This is going to be so much fun." His hand stroked my head. I flinched. It didn't feel anything like when Dean or, rarely, Dad did that. "Are you going to cry and beg when it comes to the end, Sam? I love it when they do that."

I saw movement and let my head drop in defeat, hoping to keep Jacobi distracted. It worked, he was so busy rubbing my head and laughing that it took him completely by surprise when Dean said, in a voice like ice frozen over, "Get your filthy hands off my brother."

That was pretty much the last thing I was aware of; like they had been waiting for Dean's voice as permission to stand down, my senses started to shut off, vision blurring, sounds meshing together.

I wished I could help, but I was too tired even to lift my head anymore. And anyway I couldn't see more than patches of colour and light and shade, and I could hear just enough to make out that Dean was describing Jacobi's ancestry and personal habits in extremely unflattering terms in the intervals of hitting him.

Minutes passed. Then I felt something – a feather-light touch on my cheek. Fingers slid under my chin, tilting it gently up.

I leaned into the touch.

"Dean?"

This time there was an answer. "Yeah, kiddo. I've got you."

I was lifted out of the chair. Dean slid one arm under my shoulders and the other under my knees and carried me out.

We went back up to the sick room. I could tell from the smell of antiseptic and disinfectant. And from the commotion when Dean walked in with me in his arms.

I huddled closer to Dean, afraid they'd try to separate us, but I heard him say, "Yeah, I know he shouldn't have left, but he was looking for me. Can I stay with him? He's scared and a little clingy right now."

"You're – _Dean_." The nurse sounded surprised. "Dean Peters. Oh. _You're_ the one he wanted. He was asking for you earlier. We didn't realize… I'm so sorry. I had no idea you were friends. If I'd known…"

"Yeah," Dean said, sitting down, holding me securely. "That's OK. I'm here now." There were footsteps and soft murmurs, and then a cup was held to my lips. "Drink, Sammy. Good for you. It'll stop the coughing, for a while, anyway." I sipped, and Dean rubbed my back for a minute before talking to the nurse again. "How soon are the paramedics going to get here?"

"They should be here anytime now. You want to ride to the hospital with him?"

"Yes, please."

* * *

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	7. You Think Titles Matter When Sam's Sick?

**Disclaimer: **Not mine.

**Author's Note: **I decided to be nice and _not _end this chapter on a cliffie. (Of course you know that only means I'll be doubly evil in the next chapter.)

For reviewing, thanks to PutMoneyInThyPurse, Ginnylove9990, AlElizabeth, brynerose, criminally charmed, caramelcandylover, missingmikey, SPN Mum, KlutzyHanyou, Visionairy, judyann, Sparkiebunny, peace n paris, godsdaughter77, nupinoop296, giacinta, SandyDee84, christinebleu, SamWin98, emebalia, sarah, FiOeX, HP4eva121995, it'ssamnotsammy, twomoms, Gotyu, doyleshuny, YaoiReaderGalor, Magiccatprincess, Phoenix80hp, AngelRockr7, CapitalC12, Scribble2Much, Lucydolly22, sammynanci and Iniysa.

Thanks, as always, to Cheryl.

* * *

**Chapter VII: You Really Think Titles Matter When Sam's Sick?**

See? That's what happens when you let Sam tell a story. He doesn't explain _anything_, he assumes everyone else made the same logical connections he did, and he doesn't say a word about how I was scared stiff by the possibility that I was going to end up brotherless.

So, to set the record straight, I need to backtrack a bit.

Sam _did _mention the last conversation we had, when I refused to believe anything bizarre was up. (Yeah, it _was _a spell that kept people thinking enough to figure it out, but I'll get to that later. It's not important now.)

After that I went back to the gym. I was there when I heard the PA for Dean Peters to report to the principal's office.

As soon as I saw Summers' grim face, I knew something was wrong.

"What?" I asked, suddenly terrified.

"Dean, I'm sorry. Sam's sick."

"_What?_"

"One of his friends found him collapsed in his room with blood on his lips and on the floor around him. The doctors will need to run some tests to be sure, but they think it could be the late stages of tuberculosis."

Tubercu –

"_No_," I protested. "Sammy can't have – Christ! This isn't the eighteen hundreds. Do people even _get _tuberculosis anymore?"

Summers sighed. "There seems to be some sort of nasty bug going around. Wreaking havoc with the children's immune systems. I tried to call – Sam wanted me to call your father, in fact – but all the lines are down. I've sent a couple of men into town, to notify your father and come back with medical personnel."

"Sam – Sam wanted you to call _Dad_?"

That hurt, that Sam would have gone to Dad instead of coming to me, but remembering that I hadn't been willing to give Sam's theories the time of day, I couldn't blame the kid.

It scared me, though. Sam must've thought something was seriously wrong.

"Dean," Summers said, "there is one other thing. I've asked the people I sent into town to get hold of your father, but in case they can't, who can give the medics consent to perform surgery on Sam?"

"I can do that – it's all legal, I'm over eighteen and when Dad's unavailable I'm _in loco parentis_."

"OK. Good. I'll ask the nurses to contact you if they need you when the medics get here."

"Can I see him?" I asked.

"Yes, of course. He's with the others. Go ahead."

I hurried to the nurses' room, intent on seeing Sam. I was a little annoyed when Jacobi showed up and stopped me at the door. I didn't know then the extent of his villainy, of course. (Shut up, Sam. 'Villainy' is exactly the word I want. There's no word that better describes people who hurt my little brother, especially people who hurt him back when he was still little.) But I wanted to get to Sam, and Jacobi would just slow me down.

"Something up, Dean? You still haven't found the ghost?" He pushed the door open just enough to let me see inside. There were beds lining the walls, and Sam was in the one nearest the door. "Bad news for my children."

I made some response – not even sure what I said – and started to go in.

Jacobi grabbed my arm to stop me. "Wait," he said. "It's Sam, isn't it?"

"What?"

"Sam's – what? Your friend? Your partner?"

"My brother," I said, pulling my arm away from Jacobi. "This is his job, technically. Of course, I'd never have suggested it to Dad as a solo job for him if I'd imagined _that _would happen."

Sam stirred then, and mumbled my name. Jacobi pulled me back more firmly.

"Don't, Dean. Look, whatever's doing this, it couldn't have known you and Sam were brothers, or it would have gone after him sooner. That's the way it works, isn't it, with spirits that feed off emotions and life forces? It's safest for Sam if you stay away right now."

I swallowed. I couldn't argue with that –

Then Sam made another broken attempt to say my name. My resolve crumbled. I pulled away from Jacobi and went inside.

By the time I got in, though, Sam was out again.

The duty nurse looked at me, asking if I wanted anything. I shook my head and went out.

And _that_, people, is what really happened when Sam woke up and called for me and felt all abandoned because I wasn't there. I didn't actually _abandon_ him.

Anyway… I really wanted to sit with Sam, in case he woke up again, but after discovering that the phone and Internet lines were down and cell phones were out, I knew I needed to focus on the case.

The first place I went was obviously Sam's room. The way the kid had spoken to me earlier, I was pretty sure he'd worked it out. He'd probably been checking the details when he'd collapsed in his room.

I shoved away the mental image of Sam out cold on the floor, needing me.

Just like Jacobi's story. Oh, God. Sam had been calling me, and I'd been _right there _and I hadn't gone to him because I'd let myself be persuaded that it would be safer for Sam. And maybe it would, maybe my being with him would attract something supernatural that was drawn to our bond, but that didn't mean it was _better_ for me to stay away when he needed me.

I opened Sam's door. Resolutely ignoring the bloodstains soaking into the carpet, I made straight for the old notebook that lay open on the floor.

There was a photograph tucked inside it. Adam Jefferson; I could tell from the photo Sam had shown me earlier.

That was what was holding him here? But that didn't explain the sudden weakness and loss of immunity among the kids.

I looked at the notebook. It took me a while to figure out the Latin, but eventually I had it. It was… not a resurrection, no. It was for somebody already alive to stave off death by sending someone else in their place. From what I could tell, using someone young and innocent as the sacrifice would mean the person performing the ritual would also age much more slowly.

But for that to work, the children had to die without violence. Violence made them lose their… innocence, purity, I don't know. How exactly do you translate _insons insontis_?

So there was a spell. It drained their vitality slowly, making the caster stronger and making the children more susceptible to illness and injury.

I remembered the marks of my hands on Sam's arms and felt sick.

Who the hell was _doing _this? Who would do this to _children_?

Who would do this to _my _littlebrother?

I looked down at the picture of Adam Jefferson.

It made sense. Adam Jefferson hadn't wanted to die. So he'd done the ritual. Faked his death, maybe, putting someone else's body in the coffin. Someone he killed.

But then what?

I turned to the laptop, which was on, and checked the history. A few clicks told me all I needed to know. Students at Ellison _had _died, but not while at school. Very similar to what was happening now, though, unexplained ailments and bizarre accidents.

But how had nobody noticed?

And then I realized with a start that nobody was noticing _now_. Half a dozen of the freshmen were seriously ill, two had _died_, and nobody even suspected foul play. Hell, _I _hadn't believed Sam when he'd told me something was up, and I _always_ suspected foul play.

A spell, then. A spell to make people unable to doubt, control their minds somehow. It had worked on me, too, until Summers had told me Sam had tuberculosis. Then it stopped, because Sam being hurt is the surefire way to make all spells stop working.

So… Adam Jefferson was at the school now, probably posing as a teacher.

Who, though? Someone who taught the freshman class, or at least had access to them. Not Summers; he was the one who'd called us in. Wouldn't have done that if he had something to hide.

And then it struck me. So obvious, _so _obvious, I had no idea how I'd missed it.

Daryl Jacobi. Jacobi had known all about Adam Jefferson – too much, now that I thought of it. Nobody else had ever even mentioned the legend to me.

Jacobi took Sam's class for English Lit.

I _was _planning to take him on my own, but when I came out of Sam's room I saw three people waiting for me. Mark, Alan and Victor, all from my class.

"Hey, man," Mark said. "Is it true? We heard you're not really a student… Something evil is making the freshmen sick, and you hunt them for a living."

Wow. There was a remarkable lack of freaking out. I said so, and Alan shrugged.

"The really freaky thing is that something is _doing _this to kids at Ellison. If you know how to stop it, we're not going to go crazy on you. We want to help."

I was hardly in a position to refuse the offer.

"So what were you doing in Davis's room?" Alan asked. "You know him?"

Looked like it was time for full disclosure. "Sam's my brother," I said. "My little brother. This… It's what we do. This was supposed to Sam's first solo gig, I was just here to keep an eye on him." I sighed. "Wasn't expecting it to get out of hand like this. We thought it was just a run-of-the-mill haunted house. Haunted school. You know what I mean."

Victor put his hand on my shoulder and squeezed lightly. "How can we help?"

Mark, Alan and Victor weren't hunters, but that didn't mean they weren't useful. They were all football players, and they were all built like football players.

I guessed from the way the spell was described that Jacobi had to have his stuff set up either directly above or directly below the room where the sick kids were. The room where _Sam_ was, and I was going to tear the son of a bitch a new one for even _thinking_ he could hurt my brother.

We started at the top and worked our way down.

Meaning, of course, that the basement where the altar _was _set up was the last place we looked.

Oh, yeah, and Jacobi was there when we went in.

There was only one of him and there were four of us. And he was _technically_ human... But apparently he was also a witch. Which shouldn't have surprised me, given the complexity of the spell he was casting, but anyway. I'm pleading extenuating circumstances: with Sam sick and maybe dying, it was a miracle I even managed to think straight enough to figure out as much as I did.

So, long story short, we burst in, he sprung some Latin on us, and we ended up trussed up in a neat row by the wall.

Jacobi smiled at me unpleasantly, with too many teeth and too much glee.

"Dean. So nice to have you here. It's a whole different pleasure to have a family member as part of the audience when I'm taking a child's soul. I only wish I could have Sam here as well so you could watch him die."

I forced myself to breathe. It was going to be OK. Sam was going to be fine, and I was going to kill Jacobi.

We sat there around half an hour, watching. I wriggled, doing my best to get free of the ropes, but Jacobi obviously knew what he was doing.

Then he suddenly stopped what he was doing, went to the door, and threw it open.

_Crap._

Sammy.

Sam met my eyes, and he looked so weak and exhausted and _sick_ that my heart plummeted. This was bad.

_Please._

I don't know who I was asking, because even then I didn't really believe in God, but Sam's life was on the line and I was helpless and...

_Please._

While Jacobi was shaking him and manhandling him and generally proving how he was unfit to be counted as human, Sam managed to nudge the knife he'd dropped slightly towards the door, with the result that when Jacobi hauled Sam in and pulled the door shut, the knife slid into the room.

_That's my boy._

He dragged Sam off and dumped him in a chair by the altar. He didn't bother tying him up; getting from his bed to the basement had obviously taken Sam's last bit of strength and the poor kid was pretty much done.

While Jacobi was taunting Sam (And, seriously, it wasn't enough that he _hurt _children? He had to make _fun_ of them while they were _dying_?) a ghost appeared behind him. A little boy, younger even than Sam. I knew right away he must be the ghost both Sam and Summers had seen. Someone Jefferson must have killed the first time.

The kid met Sam's eyes. Seemed like some sort of silent communication passed between them.

You know the rest. The kid vanished, Jacobi kept digging his own grave, the kid brought me the knife. I managed to get myself free, cut the others loose, and the son of a bitch was so busy being mean to a _child_ that he didn't notice us sneaking up behind him, didn't notice me breaking the symbols on his altar, didn't realize I was there until I had my knife at his back.

He turned, trying to magic us away probably, but not this time. This time I was ready, this time Sam had looked at me like I was the one who made his world go round, _this time_ Jacobi didn't stand a chance.

I let loose. (Sam claims that even half-conscious, he managed to double his vocabulary of curses just by listening to me then. I think it's likelier that he tripled it; the kid's always been a prude.)

I remember letting loose with my fists, too, every part of Jacobi that I could reach. By the time Mark and Alan pulled me off him, he was a bloody heap on the floor. (Unfortunately he wasn't dead. That's the problem with civilians, even football players. They stop you from killing people who hurt your little brother.)

I started to explain to Mark that I needed to kill Jacobi, but he pointed me in Sam's direction and gave me a shove. "We'll take care of Jacobi. Your brother's hurt."

Of course Jacobi went straight out of my head as soon as he said that.

Sam turned his face into my palm when I touched his cheek, a sure sign that he was feeling miserable. Once I was sure there weren't any physical injuries that I could aggravate, I gathered him into my arms and carried him back upstairs. I took him to the sick room, just in case, but I didn't put him down and I didn't let them take him. The nurses, by then, were probably too worn out to argue, especially since Sam kept burrowing himself deeper into my arms.

Sam drank the medicine without a fuss, for which I was grateful (and a little worried, because it meant he really _was _sick).

Apparently breaking the altar had stopped the spell, because all the kids stopped deteriorating. (The nurses didn't know why, of course. They just knew that temperatures stopped rising and blood pressures stopped plummeting and they were grateful.)

The kids didn't get better, either. That was what had me worried. Sam stayed semiconscious, mumbling my name occasionally but showing no other sign of awareness. He coughed up some blood a couple of times, not a lot, but enough that I was very grateful when Summers came in to announce that the medics had arrived. He gave me a look that I interpreted to mean Dad had arrived, too.

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	8. Sam Does This Just to Screw with Me

**Disclaimer: **_So _not mine.

**Author's Note: **First, I apologize in advance for what I'm going to do to you at the end of this chapter. Please don't kill me.

Thanks to Cheryl for the beta and to GreatGreenDragon, emebalia, Jeanny, kellywinchester, aweena, scootersmom, casammy, caramelcandylover, criminally charmed, SPN Mum, Lucydolly22, peace n paris, Sparkiebunny, christinebleu, lilywhitlockhaletheblackrose, doyleshuny, giacinta, twomoms, sammynanci and the anonymous reviewers.

* * *

**Chapter VIII: I Swear Sam Does This Just to Screw with Me**

Sam slipped completely under on the ride to the hospital. I was sitting with him in the ambulance, talking to him on the off-chance he was aware enough to understand (I swear, when he was a kid he kept getting himself into these situations on purpose, _just _to force me into a hug), when he suddenly looked at me, scared, _pleading_, and his eyes slid slowly shut.

The medics checked him over and said he was unconscious, the morons, like I couldn't see that for myself, like I couldn't _feel _the fear pumping through my veins with every beat of my heart. I held his hand tighter because what the hell else could I _do_, and the ambulance picked up speed, the wail of the siren breaking the silence of the peaceful streets. Dad must have been alarmed. He was following us in his new truck; the medics had refused to let more than one person in the ambulance with Sam and the kid had been clutching my hand like he never intended to let go.

And, let's face it, the second they told us only one of us could ride with Sam, it was always going to be me.

I have a feeling Dad felt bad about that. Not that he didn't want Sam to be close to me – hell, he encouraged it – and he and Sam had a good enough relationship when they weren't arguing. But when he was hurt or sick, Sam went to Dad for comfort only when his big brother wasn't available (and that wasn't often).

But that was the way it was, and Dad wasn't the type to agonize over what he couldn't help.

I walked right up to the Emergency Room with Sam, and at the double doors leading inside they finally told me I had to wait. Sam was still out cold, so I gently disengaged my hand from his, ran my fingers through his hair, and made the nurse promise me she'd come and tell me the second they had _any _news.

Dad ran in a few minutes later. He saw me waiting and dropped silently into the chair next to me.

We waited, and I felt more miserable with each passing moment.

I should have watched out better for Sam. I knew what Sam would say, what Dad might say if he wasn't too pissed off, that I did the best I could and it wasn't my fault that Jacobi – Jefferson, or whatever he called himself now – used whatever mojo he did to keep me from realizing something was up. And, if Sam came through this, I was pretty sure I'd be able to forgive myself.

_If _Sam came through this.

If he didn't...

I thought of my baby brother resting his head on my shoulder when I carried him out of the basement, as trusting and affectionate as he'd ever been despite the chaos of the past few days, and I wanted to cry.

Dad and I didn't talk. What would we have talked about? It would have been horrible to talk about Sam – I'm pretty sure I would've started sobbing if I'd even spoken his name – and we could hardly talk about anything else. We weren't the only ones in the waiting room, either. The other kids had been brought to the hospital, and their families were all there. Nobody was saying a word. They all knew that there had been deaths from this thing. They looked as nervous as I felt.

God, _Sammy_.

A doctor came out the double doors. I sat up hopefully, but hunkered down again at the sight of his frown. I was guiltily relieved when he said, "Family of Mary-Jo Scott?"

A couple – the woman looked vaguely familiar; I had a feeling she was a Senator or something else in politics – got to their feet and hurried to him. I would've told them not to rush: the doctor's grim expression meant bad news.

He spoke to them softly. A couple of minutes in, the woman broke down, and the man put his arms around her.

_Oh, God._

I was shaking. It was like my nightmare. It was like bloody Jacobi's bloody story. Sammy, Sammy in a hospital bed, seriously ill, maybe dying, and I couldn't do a thing to help him. I wasn't even _with _him.

What if he died on the table, all by himself? What if he died and I never got to say goodbye?

What was I going to _live _for?

_Sammy._

I felt Dad's hand on my knee. "Don't. It's going to be OK," he whispered. "Sam's going to be fine, Dean. He's a strong kid. He'll fight to stay with us."

I fought tears. I wasn't going to cry. I _wasn't_. Crying would mean giving up and I wouldn't, I _couldn't _give up on Sam. Dad was right. Sam was a strong kid. Sam was _my _strong kid. He wouldn't leave me.

After a while, Dad went to get us coffee and sandwiches from the cafeteria downstairs. I didn't want to eat – I was pretty sure I'd bring it right back up again. I mean, seriously, _food_? People actually expected me to _care _about that? While Sam might be dying, _food_?

He brought me a BLT, and normally I would have eaten it, sucky hospital food or not, because I hadn't eaten anything since lunch and it was almost time for breakfast again.

But _Sammy_.

I was going insane with the waiting, with not _knowing_, so I was relieved when Dad grabbed a passing nurse and said, "Can you please find out what's happening with my son? Sam Davis."

"Yes, of course, Mr. Davis," she said sympathetically.

She went inside, and came out a couple of minutes later. Her expression was undecipherable.

"Sam's been moved into the PICU," she said quietly. "Dr. Olsen is supervising. He's busy with one of the other children right now, but if you'd like to come with me, Mr. Davis, I'll take you to Sam. Dr. Olsen will come and find you in Sam's room when he's done with the others."

"Yes," Dad said quickly, standing up. "Yes, please. How is Sam? Is he going to be OK?"

"I think it's best if the doctor speaks to you about that." She looked at me. "Will he be coming too?"

"Yes," Dad said. "This is my other son, Dean."

"Oh! _You're _Dean. Sam asked for you." She nodded. "Come along, then." She led us through the doors and to an elevator. "Sam's just woken up," she said as we waited for the doors to open. "He's a little loopy from the medication, but he's conscious." We went in, and she pressed the button. "I should warn you, the sight of a child hooked up to the monitors can be alarming –"

"How bad is it?" I asked.

"We had to put an oxygen mask on him, and we're monitoring his blood pressure and other stats. He's breathing for himself right now, so no tube."

"That's a good thing, right?" I asked. "Sam's breathing."

"I'll let Dr. Olsen answer that," she said evasively. "He knows more about the case than I do. For now, just focus on Sam."

Oh, _God_.

"How are the other kids?" Dad asked, more to fill the silence than anything.

The elevator stopped, and we got out. The nurse waited until the doors had shut behind us before answering, as she led us down the corridor, "We lost Mary-Jo Scott on the table. We weren't even operating, just preparing her for an X-Ray." She shivered. "I don't understand it. It was like her body had just been weakened so much it gave up."

Death was too good for Jacobi.

The nurse shook her head. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't be saying things like that to you. Really, Sam's receiving the best possible care." She stopped in front of a door. "He's here. You'll have to wear masks and…" She gestured at a room opposite. "Scrubs, the gear is there. Everything. We can't risk any infection with the increased susceptibility the children have been showing."

It took us about thirty seconds to wriggle into the scrubs and put on masks and gloves. When we came out again, the nurse said, "There's something else you should know. Sam had some – alarming – bruises when he was brought in." Oh, God, _Sammy_. "At first we thought someone at the school might have been hurting him. But – well, he seems to be bruising very easily. Is this normal?"

"No," Dad said. "Not at all."

She shrugged. "Maybe his body was weakened by the infection, then. It's not something I've seen before, but I suppose it's possible." She pushed open the door and stuck her head in. "Sam? Are you awake? You have visitors."

I barely waited for her to step out of the way before I went in.

Sam looked –

He looked _tiny_, and helpless, and vulnerable, lying still in that big bed with an IV in his arm and a mask over his nose and mouth. All I wanted to do was scoop him up and hold him close.

I sat carefully on the edge of the bed.

Sam's head turned a little, eyes opening.

"Hey, Sammy." I reached for the hand that didn't have an IV. "You decided to play 'Let's scare the crap out of Dean and Dad' again, huh?"

Sam smiled under the mask.

Dad drew a chair up next to the bed and sat, patting Sam's hand where it was resting in mine. "You did a good job, Sammy. Worked it out, even though it turned out to be more complicated than we thought."

The nurse looked puzzled. Sam turned his smile on Dad, briefly, before his eyes shut.

I looked at the nurse in alarm.

"He's just tired," she said. "He's been drifting in and out. He'll probably be with you again in a few minutes." She went to the door. "Use the call button if he wakes up and looks like he's in pain. Dr. Olsen will be with you soon. And don't excite Sam."

She slipped out.

Dad sat in the chair a moment more, then he got up and went to the window. I had a feeling he was scared – scared of looking at Sam, scared that acknowledging his condition would make it real, hoping that if he backed away and pretended Sam was fine, he would be.

I stayed where I was, holding Sam's hand.

I couldn't pretend. I _couldn't_. Sam was right there in front of me, terrifyingly still. The only thing I could do was sit with him and give him as much strength as I could and maybe say something to make him smile if he woke up for me again.

He did, a few minutes later.

His eyes locked with mine, and I saw a moment of panic before he realized who I was and where we were and calmed down. I reached out to brush hair off his face.

"Hey, Sammy. You're back." Sam mumbled something, breath fogging the mask, and I shook my head. "Don't talk. I'm _pretty_ sure you should be conserving your strength right now, sick kid. You just focus on getting better." I lowered my voice conspiratorially. "We need to celebrate your first solo hunt, dude. As soon as you're better, I'm taking you for a weekend away. Just you and me, anywhere you like, Sammy." I glanced at Dad, who was staring out the window, pretending not to hear us. "If you get better for me, I'll even teach you to drive. In the Impala. We can start as soon as you're fit."

Sam smiled at me again. I smiled back, and I knew he'd sense it even if he couldn't see it because of my mask.

A few moments later, Dad came back. He went around to the other side of the bed, but he didn't sit. Too many wires and tubes on that side.

"Sam," he said, his voice rough. "Dean's right. We need to celebrate. You can have your weekend with him, but before that, maybe you can think of something you wouldn't mind doing with your old man." He patted Sam's hand. "Just remember I'm not a kid anymore, so nothing too strenuous."

That kept up for a while. Sam would drift off. Dad would go to the window and pretend the spotless hospital room had magically developed some dust that was making his eyes water. I would sit with Sam, knowing he'd want to see me as soon as his eyes opened again. A few minutes later, Sam _would _open his eyes and look for me and squeeze my hand once he'd figured out that the person in the surgical mask was his big brother. I would elaborate on our weekend plans. Sometimes Dad would come and say something, sometimes not. And then Sam would shut his eyes again.

It was nearly an hour before the door opened to admit a tall, blond man. He looked entirely too young to be a doctor, especially to be a doctor in charge of my little brother.

"Mr. Davis." He shook Dad's hand and nodded at me. "I'm Dr. Olsen, Sam's attending physician."

"Doctor. How's my son?"

"Umm… Maybe we should take this outside?"

The doctor indicated Sam, who'd opened his eyes at the noise.

It was a question of Sam's state of mind, so Dad looked at me for guidance. I looked at Sam. Sam met my eyes, communicating what he wanted without words. I nodded and squeezed his hand. My brave kid.

"Here," I said. "Talk here. Sam has a right to know."

Dr. Olsen hesitated, but Dad nodded. "Go ahead. Sam's underage, but he's not a child."

"If you say so," the doctor said. Sam's hand curled around mine. I stroked it soothingly. "Then I have to tell you, Mr. Davis, it doesn't look good." Sam's fingers tightened. "We'll do all we can, of course, and normally it's treatable, but it's too advanced and Sam's too weak at this point… I don't want to give you false hope. We'll give him the usual drugs, do all we can, but… I'm sorry. Barring miracles, it's a matter of time now."

The air went out of my lungs, but I barely noticed it. Air. Air, who the hell needed air? Who the hell had any _right _to air when Sam was –

Sam was –

I couldn't bring myself to think the word.

I squeezed Sam's hand, meeting his terrified eyes, and I knew in that instant that if Sam died, I wouldn't be far behind.

* * *

Well, I _did _warn you.

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	9. It's Not Worth the Freaking Price

**Disclaimer: **Not mine.

For reviewing, thanks to emebalia, missingmikey, lilywhitlockhaletheblackrose, , christinebleu, Winchesterlady, SamWin98, sarah, SandyDee84, Brucasalways96, twomoms, judyann, SupernaturalFanPerson, lizziemarie0529, SleepyGirl27, brynerose, d767468, YaoiReaderGalor, SPN Mum, overkalix, caramelcandylover, doyleshuny, kellywinchester, godsdaughter77, Sparkiebunny, peace n paris, GreenGreatDragon, The Slightly Demented and deanheart22. And to Cheryl for the beta.

* * *

**Chapter IX: It's Not Worth the Freaking Price**

I didn't leave Sam that night.

I got up on the bed with him, fully prepared to fight the nurses if they tried to stop me or spout crap about hospital regulations. They didn't.

I could tell Sammy wanted to cling. He was scared and he wanted the comfort, but he was too weak to move enough to take it. So I did it for him, picking up the hand that didn't have an IV in it and resting it on my ribs. Sam managed to close his fingers around my shirt, and that settled him down.

Dad didn't seem to know what to do.

He wanted to be where I was. Not with Sam dying in my arms, obviously, _neither _of us wanted that, but…

OK, there's no way to explain this without playing Dr. Phil, so I'm just going to explain and then we'll pretend it never happened? OK? (_OK, _Sam?)

Sam was dying. Let's just get right out there and say it. My baby brother was _dying_. The spell had been stopped, but we couldn't undo the damage it had already caused. Every breath was more laboured, every movement weaker. Sam didn't want to die, but I could tell he was. He could tell, too, and that made it worse.

But at least – at _least_ – I was there to hold him through the pain. If Sam died, I would have the consolation of knowing that I'd counted out his last breaths and felt his heart thudding under my fingers as it fought to get blood to a body that was giving up. I would have the consolation of knowing that the last thing _Sam _heard was my voice. It wouldn't be much, but it would be something.

Dad wanted to be with us. But he was terrified that coming closer, that sitting by the bed and letting Sam know he was there, would make it real. And he was clinging to a last, desperate hope that if he didn't acknowledge it, it would stop happening.

Me? I couldn't pretend that it wasn't happening any more than I would have been able to ignore not being able to breathe. All I could do was sit there, arms curled around Sam, and whisper false comfort and useless promises as the night wore on.

Right. Chick-flick moment's over. (That doesn't mean you get to _move_, Sam. Stay _still_… Because I'm comfortable like this, that's why! It's cold and you're a freaking furnace in that hoodie.)

At some point, Sam and I both fell asleep.

I woke up before he did, and the first thing I realized was that the nurses hadn't moved me. That was horrifying. Not that I _wanted_ to be moved – I wasn't going to be anywhere but with Sammy and I was fully prepared to fight the nurses over it – but the fact that I hadn't _had _to fight them meant they thought Sammy didn't have a chance.

The second thing I realized was that Dad was the one who'd woken me.

I'm not quite sure what time it was. From the moment Summers had called me into his room to tell me Sam was sick, time had blurred into one long instant of fear turning into panic turning into _Please I'll do anything if you just make this stop happening_.

The room was dark – they'd turned out the lights to let Sam sleep in peace.

"Dean," Dad said softly, shaking his head when I stroked Sam's back to keep him from waking. "I have to go for a while –"

"_What?_" I demanded in a furious whisper. Normally I would just have nodded and asked if Dad needed help, but _this_? _Now? _Sam was sick, dying, my baby brother was _dying_ in my arms and Dad thought _this _would be a good time to walk out on us? "What the _hell _have you got to do that's more important than Sammy?"

"Watch your tone, Dean," Dad said, frowning. "Do you really think I don't care that my son is injured?"

"_Clearly_ you care enough that you've got no problem _leaving _him so you can –"

"So I can _what_? Honestly, Dean, what do you _think _I'm going to do? Jacobi's in hospital and handcuffed to a bed in the psych ward, and as much as I want to go after him, I can't just yet. There are FBI agents with him trying to figure out if he's discovered some terrifying new form of bioterrorism. I'm just going to check that notebook you told me you found in Sam's room, visit the local library, call a couple of people, and see if anyone knows a way to reverse this." He indicated Sam, curled up in my arms like a puppy, looking far more contented than I would have believed possible given how much pain he had to be in. "There has to be _something_."

"Oh." I felt stupid. Dad and Sammy had arguments, but, God, Dad was an authoritative father and Sam the broodiest, angstiest teenager who ever brooded and angsted. Naturally they had arguments. That didn't mean they hated each other. "Sorry."

Dad shook his head. "Don't be. Stay here and…" He trailed off, looking at me wistfully. "I don't have to tell you, do I?"

"Take care of Sammy?" I looked down at my sleeping brother. "You don't have to tell me that."

Dad nodded. "OK. I'll be back as soon as I can. Call if you need me."

I didn't fall asleep again after Dad left. One of the nurses – her nametag said Caroline, and she was hot, but I couldn't be bothered to flirt – came in as soon as he'd gone, checked Sam over, and decided he was breathing well enough to take off the oxygen mask, though she advised me to keep my mask on just to be safe.

Sam woke up half an hour later.

He looked around the empty room. I could see the question in his eyes.

"Gone to find a way to fix this," I told him.

Sam nodded and indicated that he wanted to sit up. I helped him up, piled his pillows behind him, and got him settled leaning half on the pillows and half on my shoulder.

"OK?"

"Yeah. Thanks." Sam pushed himself closer to me. "Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm scared."

"I'm here."

"What if Dad can't find a way to fix this? What if there's nothing?"

My breath caught in my throat. I'd been thinking the same thing, not letting myself acknowledge the thought but unable to keep it from flitting through my mind nonetheless. But to hear _Sam _say it, to hear the fear in his voice…

"Don't be stupid," I said curtly. "You know he'll find something. He's Dad."

"But –"

"Shut up!" I snapped. Then, more quietly, "You _know_ he will, Sammy. And if he doesn't, _I _will." I slid my hand up into Sam's hair. I hadn't thought about it before, but it was true. "You don't get to die. I'm not _letting _you die."

"I don't think it's really your choice, Dean. You always say hunting's a dangerous job."

Despite the brave words, my brother's voice was shaking.

Before I could respond, the door opened and Nurse Caroline slipped in. She smiled at us. "I thought I heard voices," she said. "We didn't want to disturb Sam earlier – he looked like he needed the sleep. But now that he's awake, how about something to eat?"

I wasn't hungry, but Sam needed to keep his strength up, so I said, "Yeah. That sounds good. Doesn't it, kiddo?" Sam made a face. I nudged his arm. "None of that. You have to eat. How are you going to fight this thing and get better for me if you don't eat enough?" The nurse slipped out. I said lightly, "Growing kids need food, Sam."

Sam didn't argue. I sat him up properly and moved to the chair by the bed so I could take the mask off to eat. When the nurse came back with a tray for him and a couple of sandwiches for me, he actually did manage to eat a little. The rest had restored enough of his strength that he managed to feed himself, and I took that as another good sign.

An hour later, Dad hadn't come back or called, and Sam was half-asleep again.

I was starting to worry.

"Don't," Sam said quietly.

"What?"

"Don't agonize about it, Dean. You said it yourself. Dad'll find something. He always does."

"Yeah, but what if… I should be looking, too."

"No. You should be here."

I ignored him. "Maybe Jacobi knows how to reverse this. They said he was in a room here, those stupid jocks wouldn't let me kill him. I should track him down and threaten him –"

"_Dean._"

"Actually, I have a better idea. I can go get his notebook from Dad."

"His notebook?" Sam sounded startled. "What good's that going to do? It only has the spell, not a reversal."

"Exactly," I said grimly.

It took Sam a moment to work out what I meant. When he did, his eyes widened in alarm and he pushed himself further up. "No. Don't be stupid, Dean."

"I'm not going to kill any innocent people –"

"Damn straight you're not."

"But _Jacobi_. I mean, come on. I don't think he counts as a person, and he's sure as hell not innocent. He shouldn't be around, anyway. He should've died years ago. He's not a child, but I'm sure I can figure out a way to work the spell on him –"

"Dean –"

"I mean, I saw the altar. Nothing very complicated. I can get all the stuff I need –"

"Dean –"

"And it's not like he deserves to live. The man _murdered _children."

"Dean!" Sam snapped. "No."

"Sammy –"

"No. We don't kill people, Dean."

"He's barely a person, Sammy."

"Dean." Sam leaned forward. "I… look, I admit I'm scared, and I don't want to die, but I'm not going to let you do this. You're not a murderer, and you're not going to turn into one for my sake. It isn't worth it."

"The hell it's not."

"Dean, please. You're better than this." I glared at Sam. "Dean, don't. I'd rather die than –"

"Don't you dare!" I cut in furiously. "Don't you finish that sentence. You don't get to say things like that. You don't get it, do you? You don't _get_ it. You – you think I can watch you die and then just go on _living_?"

"I'm just saying… don't do anything stupid."

"Stupid? Oh, now I'm _stupid_? I'm just doing my job."

"It's not –"

"Watching out for you. Taking care of you. That's my job, Sam. You don't get to die."

"You think I _want_ to?"

"Then why aren't you fighting? Or letting me fight? He doesn't deserve to live anyway, Sam. I'd just be doing to him what he did to dozens of kids – _kids_. To _my _kid. I mean, since his ritual was interrupted, he's probably going to die in a few weeks _anyway_."

"Fine. Let him. That won't be your fault."

"And meanwhile you're going to sit there looking sick."

"I wouldn't have to _sit here looking sick_ if you'd just listened to me when I –"

Sam suddenly stopped short as we both realized what he'd said.

"Sam..." I whispered, feeling like he'd stabbed me. I would have _preferred _it if he'd stabbed me.

"No," Sam said quickly. "Dean, _no_. Don't. I didn't mean that. I'm sorry. It was the spell. It's not your fault."

"No, you're right." I swallowed. "Don't tell the truth and then apologize for it. If I'd been watching your back like I was supposed to, we might have been able to figure this out before it got this far. Would've got you to hospital while you were still just having headaches."

"Dean, please –"

"I'm sorry."

"Dean –"

"I'll – I'll be back, Sam."

I got up and ran out. I could feel tears threatening, and I _couldn't _break down in front of Sam. The kid had already been through too much – and it wasn't his fault I'd screwed up.

I went – well, I don't really know where. I found myself outside in the garden, and I found a secluded bench, and I put my head in my hands and sobbed. Every time I _thought _I was calming down I'd think about life without Sam and that would set me off again. It had felt so weird to wake up in my room at Ellison and not hear Sam breathing, and that had just been a couple of _days_. What would it feel like after a week? Or a month?

Would I ever get to a point where I woke up and _didn't_ feel like my heart had been ripped out when I realized Sam was gone forever?

That thought made me feel even worse.

All told, it was a good half hour before I could calm myself down enough to go back to Sam.

Even before I got to the door, I heard the nurse telling Sam consolingly, "Don't worry, I'm sure your brother just needed some air. He'll be back."

I swallowed – way to make me feel even _worse_ – and opened the door.

The nurse smiled at me and patted Sam's shoulder. "See? What did I tell you? He's back." She raised an eyebrow momentarily at the lack of scrubs, and then shrugged and motioned me in. "I would tell you to go change but I think he can handle it now. He's doing better."

Her eyes warned me not to hope for much, though. She thought it was just a rally before the end. I had a horrible feeling she was right. Ending Jacobi's ritual meant the kids _weren't_ being drained anymore, so they probably weren't any more susceptible to infection than usual. But that couldn't reverse the damage that had already been done.

"Dean," Sam said, sounding incredibly relieved.

I wasn't sure if I was going to stay – I _knew_ I'd screwed up, but hearing Sam say it was more painful than I could have imagined, and I didn't know if I could take a lot more of it. But then Sam held out his hands to me, the way he'd done when he'd been four years old and demanding a bedtime story, and I knew I couldn't leave him.

I waited for the nurse to finish checking his vitals, and then I went to the bed and pulled Sam into a hug.

"I'm sorry," Sam whispered into my shirt. "I didn't mean it, Dean. It's not your fault. It must've been a powerful spell; it kept anyone from guessing the last time. And it would've done this time too." I rubbed Sam's back. "Dean, I'm _sorry_."

"I know." I lowered myself to the edge of the bed so Sam could rest his head on my shoulder. "It's OK, kiddo. You're tired and sick. I shouldn't have picked a fight."

"This is _not_ your fault," Sam repeated insistently. Stubborn bitch.

I knew he wouldn't shut up till I acknowledged it, so I said, "OK. It's not my fault." I found myself almost believing it, too. Or, at least, believing that even if it _was _my fault, Sam had forgiven me, so that made everything else irrelevant.

"You're an awesome brother and I love you. I was just... I don't want you to do _that _for me, Dean. It's not worth it."

"You're worth everything, Sammy."

"Not that," Sam said. "Dean, I'm sorry."

"Shhh. We're good. You're my kid brother, Sammy, and you're sick. I couldn't stay mad at you even if I wanted to." I backed away and grinned at him. "Besides, you've had worse fights with Dad."

"It doesn't hurt to fight with Dad." Sam stared at his hands. "I _hate _fighting with you. It… I just hate it."

"I know you do, runt." I patted his knee. "Maybe it's because we really know how to hurt each other when we get mad. You know they say you always hurt the people you're closest to."

Sam nodded.

After a moment, "Dean?"

"Yeah, Sammy?"

"Can we go outside?" He looked at me pleadingly. "I've been stuck in here for _hours_, Dean. And it's not going to hurt me. I'm breathing fine and it's probably still sunny."

"Let me talk to Caroline."

* * *

What did you think? Good? Bad? Please review!


	10. How Things Aren't as Bad as Dean Thinks

**Disclaimer: **Not mine.

For the reviews, thanks to SPN Mum, emebalia, Adolescently, criminally charmed, kellywinchester, sarah, YaoiReaderGalor, judyann, brynerose, sammynanci, christinebleu, SandyDee84, HP4eva121995, caramelcandylover, lizziemarie0529, Faye, SamWin98, godsdaughter77, Sparkiebunny, Visionary, doyleshuny and twomoms.

Thanks to Cheryl, for all the help.

* * *

**Chapter X: How Things Usually Aren't as Bad as Dean Thinks**

And now that we're back to where I was fully coherent, I can tell the story.

Dean's made it sound like I wasn't scared, which isn't entirely accurate. The truth is that I didn't know just how bad it was. Sure, I'd heard what the doctor had said, and it had terrified me at first. I knew that some of the other kids have died, and I knew it was a _possibility_ that I might, but once I'd had time to think, it wasn't a possibility I really believed in. I'd been hurt on hunts before. Dean and Dad always sorted it out. I was sure they'd sort it out this time, too.

If I'd been aware enough to realize just how scared _they _were, I would've been a lot more scared myself.

Before we actually went outside, I wanted to find out about my classmates. The nurses brought me a wheelchair – I didn't argue; I didn't want to fall flat on my face in two minutes and be dragged back in – and Dean helped me into it and wrapped a blanket around my knees.

Because it was the PICU, the blanket had big bunnies on it.

"Dean, it's going to be _sunny_ outside."

"We're not taking risks."

We got a lot of sympathetic looks as Dean pushed me down the corridor. One elderly woman burst into tears when she saw us.

I twisted around to ask Dean, "Do I look that bad?"

Dean just looked at me, eyes bright with the tears he wouldn't let fall in my presence. That was the first hint I had of how terrified he really was.

Neither of us said anything else as he wheeled me to the nurses' station and asked about the other kids. One of them nodded sympathetically.

"We haven't lost anyone today. Dennis Pierce coded on us last night, but we managed to get him going again and he's been stable." The nurse patted my cheek. "Not much improvement in anyone either, I'm afraid. But maybe things will start looking better today. Right, Sam?" She glanced at Dean. "Are you taking him outside?"

"Yeah, is that OK?"

"Sure." She smiled. "The weather's nice. It might even be good for him. Just stay where it's sunny and come back in right away if it starts raining or gets cold."

Dean nodded his thanks.

He took us outside and found a secluded, sunny spot by a small clump of trees. He put the brakes on the wheelchair and dropped to the grass in front of me.

After a few minutes, he sighed, rested his head on my knee, and shut his eyes.

"Tell me when you want to go in, Sammy," he mumbled.

"Yeah."

I didn't think anything of it at first. This was back in the days when Dean wasn't afraid his junk would shrivel up and fall off if he actually showed some affection. It wasn't _normal_ for him to want to be so close, but it wasn't unexpected, especially not with how sick I was.

Then I realized Dean was sobbing quietly.

I put my hand on his head. "Dean. Don't. It's not your fault. Please."

He didn't reply, but he pushed his head up into my palm. I ran my fingers through his hair, and then he leaned up, wrapped his arms around my waist, buried his face in the blanket on my lap, and cried. _Really_ cried, helpless, heaving sobs that sounded like they were being wrenched from the depths of his soul.

"_Dean._"

_Then_ I was starting to panic. I had been a little nervous before – I mean, it wasn't like I wanted to die – but Dean's desperate tears made me feel how close the danger was. For all I'd said earlier about inevitability, I'd been perfectly confident that Dean would find a way to sort everything out. _That_ was when I realized that he didn't know how to fix this – that he might not be _able _to fix it.

I couldn't keep my fingers from curling in his shirt at the realization.

"I'm sorry," Dean choked, words barely discernible. "I _tried_, Sammy. But I can't think of anything – anything other than Jacobi's spell –"

"_Dean._"

"And you don't want me to kill him, fine, although I think he deserves to die. But – God I don't know if I can live without –"

And that was even more horrible than the thought that I might die. I didn't wait for him to finish the sentence. I grabbed his collar and pulled him up. Or, well, I _tried _to pull him up. I was too weak to do it. But Dean felt my hands and looked up on his own.

"Don't," I whispered urgently. "Don't – don't you ever even _suggest _that. Do you think I could ever be at peace if you… if you… Dean, _don't_."

"You think _I _can live without you?"

"You'll be fine. You're strong."

Dean sighed and lowered his head to my knee again. "I'm strong because I have something to be strong _for_, Sammy. Take that away, who knows?"

"You have your baby," I said lightly. Dad had given Dean the Impala just that year.

Dean looked up, scowling. "Sam, I love my baby, but if you're even _hinting_ that you think a _car _is going to make up for you not being with me anymore –"

"Dean!" He wasn't normally this touchy. "I was joking. I know you love me almost as much as you love the Impala."

"It's not funny." Dean's glare intensified. "And you're more important to me than –" He broke off and ducked his head. A moment later, he whispered, "More important than anything else." Then he looked up again. "But don't tell anyone I said so."

"Especially not your baby?" I teased.

"You can tell my baby," Dean assured me. "My baby understands. Me and my baby, we have a deal."

"A _deal_? With the _Impala_?"

"Yeah." Dean grinned. "I keep you safe when she's not around. She keeps you safe when I'm not around." I couldn't help laughing. "I'm not joking, Sammy! See, that's why you have to get better. _I _was supposed to be on duty at Ellison, and she'll never forgive me if…" Dean's eyes darkened. "You can't die."

He refused to say another word no matter how much I prodded, so we sat together in silence until the sun started to go down.

The sudden nip in the air made me start to cough, and then Dean jumped like he'd been scalded, yelled at me about telling him if I was feeling sick, wrapped the blanket around me, put his jacket on top of that, and hurried us inside.

Caroline – the pretty nurse that Dean, for some reason, didn't seem interested in flirting with – helped him get me in bed and put the oxygen mask over my face. I started to protest, but Dean was looking at me with such a horrible mixture of guilt and sorrow that I would probably have let her intubate if I'd thought that would cheer him up.

The mask helped with the coughing.

By the time Dad came back I was feeling a lot more comfortable. Dean had got up on the bed again, making me feel warm and safe. Caroline had produced a battered copy of Andersen's fairytales. Dean was reading to me from the book, inserting enough of his own commentary to make me snicker. ("Seriously, Sammy? _Snow bees? _What was this guy _smoking_? More importantly, do you think we can get some?")

Dad, when he arrived, looked a little bemused at the sight. Dean glanced at him and lowered the book, although he didn't shut it.

"Did you find anything?"

Dad shook his head sadly. "Nothing."

For a second – just for a second – Dean looked like the entire world had come crashing down around him. Then he shut his eyes and breathed deeply.

When he opened them again, they were glinting with determination.

"Fine," he said. "Want to finish the story, Sammy?"

"Dean?" Dad asked, sounding as startled as I felt. "Did you get what I said?"

"Yeah, I did. Sammy? Story? Want to find out what happened to Kay?"

"Dean –"

"Yeah, Dad!" Dean snapped. I looked up in surprise at the sudden fury in his voice. His arm came around my shoulders at once. "It's OK, Sammy." He turned back to Dad. "I get it. You can't figure out a way to help Sammy. And I'm sure as hell going to try, but I don't know if I can either. And…" His arm tightened. "And I don't know how I'm going to live without him, if it's even going to be _possible _for me to live without him, but that's _my _problem. Right now Sam's alive, and I'd rather save the research for when he's sleeping. If he's just got a couple of weeks left then they're going to be as happy as I can make them." Dean looked at me. "Sammy? The story?"

I'd never felt prouder of my big brother, or closer to him, than I did in that moment.

"Yes, please, Dean."

As Dean read, Dad came silently to the bed, sat on the edge, and patted my shoulder with gruff affection.

Soon after, I was half asleep.

A knock at the door startled me into wakefulness. Dean held me closer, his arm a protective barrier against the world.

Dad rolled his eyes. "It's probably dinner. Or one of the nurses coming to check on him. I'll see."

It wasn't dinner. Or the nurses.

When the old man pushed past Dad into the room, I felt myself stiffen. Dean promptly put the book down and drew me closer.

"Who the hell are you?" he demanded.

"He's Fitch," I whispered.

I was sure the words had been lost in the oxygen mask – I almost couldn't hear _myself_ – but Dean, hearing preternaturally keen when I was the one speaking, understood and glared at the old gardener.

"Fitch? You're Jacobi's father? You're the one who _wouldn't help Sam_ when he went to you?"

"He _what_?" Dad snarled, taking a threatening step towards Fitch.

The gardener looked from one of them to the other calmly. "Thanks to my son's activities, my house is full of bottles of blood and pieces of bone and all kinds of other unspeakable things. The ghost of a twelve-year-old boy has practically taken up permanent residence and I'm reasonably sure there's a special hell waiting for me for not having put a stop to this sooner. You're not scary."

He pulled a chair up to the bed and sat. "Sam. Your name isn't Sam Davis, is it?" He didn't wait for an answer. "But that's the one I know you by, so… Believe me when I tell you that I'm truly sorry about what happened, Sam."

"_Sorry?_" Dean said incredulously. "You're _sorry_? Children _died _because you _let _your son go on killing."

"Actually, that's not true." Fitch turned his attention to Dean. "I didn't know what he'd done. Adam went down in the records as being dead. I _saw _his corpse. I watched them put it in the coffin and I watched them lower the coffin into his grave."

"Then he came back to life?" Dad asked.

"He never died. He – I found out later that my wife helped him. I had no idea… And she had been dead for years when I learnt of it, so… I don't know the details, but apparently he managed to rally his strength a little. That isn't uncommon with a terminal illness. She – my wife – kidnapped a youth from a nearby town to avoid drawing attention to the school. It was the same thing Adam did later, absorbing the boy's strength into himself. The boy died in Adam's place, and Carol used a spell to change the boy's appearance to match Adam's. Then Carol came home, although she must have done something wrong – the spell backfired on her somehow – because she died soon after. Fatal heart attack. Adam got himself hired at the school as an under-gardener. In different clothes, with a different haircut, nobody recognized him. The… the _ritual_ he performed – I think you must have worked it out, if you managed to find him, Sam. The first time, he drew enough of the children's energy to make them highly susceptible to illness and injury, and he did it just before they were due to go home. Suspicion never fell on the school. Why would it? They all died in their parents' care."

"Why did he stop?"

"You understand this is all hearsay," Fitch said. "I had no idea at the time… the principal in the sixties was a man called Culver. He – well, he had to notice that several of his students were having mysterious accidents over their vacations. First he thought there might be a – a _normal _problem. Some sort of immune-lowering fungus in the ventilation shafts, something like that. He had experts come in. Discreetly, of course; the school had a reputation to maintain. They found nothing."

Dean and Dad still looked suspicious, but at least they were listening.

"Then… He called a woman. Someone like you. Zoë Morales."

"Zoë," Dean breathed. "So… she was real?" I wondered what the story was; if Dean knew, he could tell me later.

Fitch nodded. "There's a rumour she left her weapons hidden somewhere in the school." That explained what I'd found. "Adam killed her as well. Finally Culver gave in and stopped taking students under fourteen. When I heard about that, I was, naturally, interested. I read the newspaper accounts. One of them had a picture of the school staff, and in the corner…"

"Your son," Dean said quietly, rubbing my arm.

"There was no mistaking him. It had been fifteen years, but he only looked two or three years older than he'd been when he died. I… I was torn between hope and fear. I hurried to California and looked into it."

"And found the truth," Dad spat. "And _didn't _turn him in."

"He'd stopped killing children by then. He begged me not to give him away – he swore he wouldn't do it again. And there was no way to bring the dead children back to life." Fitch sighed. "He was my son. I gave in. Eventually he went to college and came back as a teacher."

I felt the weight of Dean's cheek resting on my head.

"Would you have done anything different?" Fitch asked plaintively. "He'd _stopped _killing children. I couldn't save anyone or bring back the children he'd killed. All I could do was hurt him. And he was my boy. My only child."

"That's no excuse," Dad growled. "You should have turned him in."

Dean's arms tightened around me.

"Why are you here?" he asked the old gardener wearily. "We've caught Jacobi – Adam – whatever he is now. You can't help him."

"I understand. I'm not here for that." Fitch slipped his hand into his jacket pocket. "I told you Adam kept a lot of his _equipment_ at my house. Or maybe you could say I confiscated it. I didn't burn it – I probably should have done, but I was afraid of unleashing something even _worse_." He leaned forward. "You have to understand – I didn't _want _to believe Adam was hurting children again. But after I spoke to Sam the last time, I went and checked on the things. Some were missing."

I could feel Dean's heart beating faster under my cheek.

"I found something I thought might help." Fitch pulled a book – an _old _book, a grimoire – from his pocket and put it on the table by the bed. "He got his spell from that. Maybe you'll find something to undo it." Fitch got to his feet. "I'm not asking for forgiveness. Not even understanding. What I've done is unforgiveable, I know that. Nothing I do can bring back the children who've died, now, because I didn't tell the truth when I had the chance. But for the sake of the children still alive – for _Sam's_ sake – take the gift in the spirit it's given."

* * *

What did you think? Good? Bad? Finally forgiven me for the last two chapters?


	11. How Spells Aren't Easy to Reverse

**Disclaimer: **Not mine.

Um. This is a lot later than the "couple of days" I promised, I know. Sorry about that – I've been caught up with RL.

Thanks to Cheryl for the beta (and SandyDee84 for the poke!) and to missingmikey, emebalia, doyleshuny, CeCe Away, KlutzyHanyou, YaoiReaderGalor, kellywinchester, SamWin98, Ginnylove9990, sarah, PutMoneyInThyPurse, SandyDee84, godsdaughter77, judyann, SPN Mum, The Slightly Demented, caramelcandylover, lizziemarie0529, twomoms, Sparkiebunny, sammynanci, christinebleu, lilywhitlockhaletheblackrose , brynerose, HP4eva121995, TinTin11 and AlElizabeth for reviewing.

* * *

**Chapter XI: How Spells Aren't Easy to Reverse**

"I really must advise you against this, Mr. Davis," we heard the nurse say. She'd taken Dad outside the room to talk to him, but they hadn't shut the door, so we could hear every word.

"You can't do anything for my son," Dad pointed out calmly. "What can I possibly gain from keeping him here?"

"I know this is difficult for you to hear, Mr. Davis, but if he stays here, he'll spend his last days painlessly and in comfort. We'll make certain of that. We're fully equipped to take care of him and we'll make sure he has the best possible attention. If you take him home, or anywhere but to another hospital, he'll be in serious pain for the short time he has left. Is that really what you want?"

Dean whispered my name into my hair, holding me closer, tighter. "It's OK, Sammy," he said hoarsely. "It's OK. We're going to fix this."

"I know."

"Dad's sure this is going to work."

"I know," I told him, patting his arm.

Oh, yeah, maybe I should've led with that. The grimoire Fitch gave Dad proved useful. Dad pored over it all night and found a ritual that would undo the effect of Jacobi's spell on any victims still alive. And, best of all, it wasn't too complicated.

It was a two-man job, though, and Dean had flatly refused to leave the hospital without me. (That, I have to admit, was partly my fault. Dean had been reluctant, but willing, once he realized that doing it might save me. But I couldn't stand the thought of being alone in the hospital while Dean and Dad did whatever they were going to do, and I'd begged to go with them.)

A few minutes later, Dad opened the door and nodded to Dean. Dean nodded back and loosened his grip, lowering me back down to my pillows.

"Dean –"

"Hey." Dean looked at me. "I'm not leaving without you, OK? There's just something I need to do. I'll be back in half an hour, tops."

"Promise?"

"I promise, Sammy." Dean squeezed my shoulder. "I'm not going _anywhere_ without you."

Dad came in to keep me company while Dean was away. He read to me a bit, and he seemed a lot happier than usual. When I asked him about it, he laughed and said maybe I'd understand someday.

It was very unlike Dad, and I was bewildered.

When Dean came back, Nurse Caroline was with him, pushing a wheelchair.

"I still don't like this," she said as Dean heaved a duffel bag onto the bed and pulled some of my clothes out of it. "At least let me recommend a good nursing home or hospice – somewhere he'll be taken care of."

"_I'm_ taking care of Sammy," Dean said. He drew the privacy curtain and helped me change.

"I know you'll do your best, Dean," Caroline said through the curtain. "But you're not an expert. For something like this you need a trained professional. Think about what's good for Sam."

Dean ignored her, helping me to the wheelchair.

When we got outside, I realized where Dean had vanished – not just to get me normal clothes.

The Impala was waiting outside, black metal gleaming in the morning sunlight. I couldn't keep a wide smile from spreading across my face.

Dad sighed, gaze going from the Impala to his truck, which was parked right behind it.

"Are you sure about this, Dean? I know how you feel about the Impala, but the truck really does have better suspension. He might be more comfortable."

"Dad," Dean began, and then stopped, coming around the wheelchair to crouch in front of me. "I hate to admit it, but Dad might be right," he told me honestly. "The truck probably _does _have better suspension. You want to go in that?"

"I want to go with you," I told him.

"I'll ride in the truck with you if you want. I can put the Impala in the parking lot here and come get her later. Whatever you want, Sammy."

"I want to go with you," I repeated. "In the Impala."

I could see Dean trying not to smile too broadly. "Yeah? You sure about that?"

"Yeah, Dean. I'll be fine." I grinned at him. "Besides, don't you have to prove to your baby that you've kept up your end of the deal?"

Dean's face fell. "You're still… I've not kept it up _yet_."

I mentally kicked myself for bringing that up. "But you will," I said, squeezing Dean's shoulder.

"Damn right I will."

"And I want to go in the Impala. I've missed her – _it_. I've missed _it_."

"OK, kiddo," Dean said, smiling again and stepping back so Nurse Caroline could say bye.

When she'd given me her phone number and finished telling me to take care of myself and call her if I needed anything at all, Dean pushed the wheelchair right up to the car and helped me in the passenger side. He opened the back door, took a couple of pillows and a big, fluffy blanket from the seat, and piled them in my lap.

"I just got them," he explained in answer to my questioning look. "I'm supposed to keep you warm."

"Dean, it's a sunny day."

"I'm supposed to keep you warm," Dean insisted.

I looked at Dad for help. Dad shrugged. "I tried to talk sense to him and I practically got accused of wanting my younger son to catch pneumonia. And, anyway, Sam, I think it's best not to take chances. Use the blanket."

I sighed. I didn't know why I'd even tried. Dean would defer to Dad about everything except taking care of me.

Dean slid in the driver's side, took the pillows, and arranged them on the seat. Then he tugged me down.

It was actually very comfortable given the lack of space. My head was on Dean's thigh, one pillow at my back and one under my feet. The blanket made me too warm, especially since I had to curl up to fit, but it seemed to make Dean feel better, so I didn't argue.

Dean drove so smoothly that I was asleep before he'd even pulled out of the parking lot.

And then I woke up.

I couldn't have been sleeping for more than ten minutes.

I was coughing. Harder than earlier; it felt like a wendigo was clawing at my lungs and trying to pull them out through my throat. I heard Dean's voice and the rattle of gravel on the underside of the chassis as he stopped on the shoulder of the road.

And then I didn't really know much except that I was coughing, and I could taste blood, and it hurt so much I half-wished I could _die_.

When it was over, I realized I was sitting up, propped against Dean's chest, his arms tight around me and his voice whispering comforting nonsense in my ear. My head hurt, my chest hurt, and there was blood on my t-shirt and on Dean's jacket.

"Sorry," I whispered.

"Shut up." Dean stroked my back. "Dad's coming, kiddo."

I looked up in time to see Dad come around to Dean's side and open the door.

"What's wrong?" he asked anxiously. "Are you boys OK?"

"We're fine," Dean said. "Sammy wasn't feeling too good, but he's better now."

Dad bit his lip, eyeing the blood on Dean's jacket. "Maybe we should have left him in the hospital."

"No." Dean tugged me in closer. "He needs us around more than he needs the drugs. Besides, I want Sammy there when we're doing the ritual. He's likelier than either of us to spot it if we do something wrong."

Dad sighed. "Fine. Let's go on. The sooner we get this done…"

Dad drove off, but we didn't follow right away. Dean helped me out, cleaned me up, and had me drink some water before he settled us in the front seat again. I fell asleep right away, and this time when I woke up we weren't in the car anymore.

I was in a bed, in a motel room. A nicer one than our usual digs.

I turned my head a little, and saw Dean fast asleep next to me.

Relieved and reassured, I went back to sleep.

I woke to a voice – _Dean's_ voice.

"Come on, Sammy," he urged. "Up. We've got all the stuff together, time for the ritual." I blinked. "That's it. We need you to go over the ritual and see if there's anything we missed."

I opened my eyes.

The first thing I realized was that I felt even weaker than earlier. I wasn't sure I'd be able to sit up without help. Fortunately Dean was there, lifting me and propping me against his shoulder while he held the book for me to read. Dad, sitting at the small table, watched quietly.

It didn't look like there was anything missing. The ritual was simple. The usual cleansing stuff – a rosary, some holy water, something silver, blood from one of the victims who was still alive, and all the books and jars and junk Jacobi had used to set up his altar.

"And that should reverse what he's done," Dad said. "It won't bring back anyone who's died, but the victims still alive will recover. Think I've missed anything, Sam?"

I read through the ritual, translating the Latin as I went. It _seemed _fine.

I glanced at the table where Dad and Dean had put everything they'd found in Jacobi's altar, his books and papers from his room at the school, and all the stuff he'd left in Fitch's house. They hadn't taken any chances; they'd grabbed every single one of Jacobi's possessions that looked remotely like it could be related to the spell. They'd made an imposing pile. "I don't think so." I looked at Dean. "Now?"

"Now," Dean said, reaching to the bedside table for his knife. "Sammy?" I gave him my hand, didn't look while he cut it and collected a phial of blood. "OK, we're done." He put the phial aside and wrapped my hand. "Come on, Sammy."

He helped me up, and half-carried, half-dragged me to a chair by where Dean and Dad had set up the altar. I couldn't help shivering. It looked so much like Jacobi's altar.

"Let's do this."

Dad read the Latin and Dean did the mixing and then systematically burnt, broke or shattered Jacobi's equipment. He did it the way he did everything, brisk and efficient. When it was over I felt – something. A little jerk around the region of my navel.

And that was it.

I frowned. I didn't feel any healthier, but maybe it wouldn't act right away. It almost certainly wouldn't; this was a pagan ritual, not a magic wand. Maybe we had to give it time.

Dean said the same thing, desperate hope mingled with fear in his voice.

That night Dean slept next to me and Dad took the other bed. It had been years since we'd done that – normally Dean and I got our own room with two singles, or I got a camp bed if there was only one room available. (These days it's Dean who gets the camp bed, because he's so short.)

I wasn't complaining. Dean had figured out where to rub my back so that breathing wasn't a strain.

I was worse in the morning.

It took all of Dean's coaxing before I could even get my eyes to open, and then I had another coughing fit. Dad rubbed my head anxiously, and Dean clutched me to him and tried not to let me hear the way his breath hitched.

"This makes no sense," Dad said, later, when I had stopped coughing.

Dean was sitting by the bed, letting me clutch a handful of his shirt as he frantically read Fitch's book again. He was going through it more carefully than he'd ever read any book _ever_, stopping occasionally to consult Dad or me about an uncertain translation.

"We did everything," Dad insisted. "I'm sure of it. It should have worked."

"We have to be missing something." Dean put the book down. "I don't know what, but there must be something we've overlooked." He reached out to squeeze my hand. "We're going to figure it out, Sam."

I nodded, too tired to do more than that. Dean squeezed harder.

"I'm going to get something for you boys to eat," Dad said abruptly, getting to his feet, grabbing his jacket, and stalking out.

Dean sighed. "You know he doesn't mean anything by it, Sammy. He's just freaked."

"Yeah." I looked at Dean. "You're not. Not as much as I expected."

"No. I'm not." Dean leaned forward, letting his forehead rest on my shoulder, and I pretended not to notice that he was trembling. "I know you're not going to die." His voice was a little muffled by my shirt, but I had no trouble understanding him.

"You're going to figure it out."

"_We _are." Dean put the grimoire in my lap and patted it. "I have the book and I have a geek to translate the book and tell me what we need to do. Everything's going to be fine."

I rubbed Dean's back, smiling when he let out a contented sigh.

Dean was right. We would figure this out. There was just something we were missing, a piece of the puzzle we hadn't found yet. As soon as we did, we'd be able to reverse the spell and save the children – whoever was still alive, at least.

And then it struck me.

It was so simple. So _obvious_.

"Dean," I said softly. "I know what we have to do."

* * *

The last time, I promise. Sam really has figured it out. ;-)

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	12. How Some Ends Always Come

**Disclaimer: **Not mine.

Um. So. Long wait again. Sorry about that, it's been crazy.

I've tried a slightly back-and-forth kind of narrative for this chapter, let me know how it's working for you. This is the last-but-one post for this story.

For the reviews, thanks to emebalia, godsdaughter77, AlElizabeth, judyann, kellywinchester, criminally charmed, twomoms, lizziemarie0529, TinTin11, sarah, Winki Farm, peace n paris, christinebleu, brynerose, sammynanci, SandyDee84, caramelcandylover, Faye, doyleshuny, Colby's girl, decitagatria, SamWin98, YaoiReaderGalor, BranchSuper, Visionairy, AngelRocker7, Lyzzybelle, overkalix and skag trendy.

Thanks to Cheryl for the beta!

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**Chapter XII: How Some Ends Always Come**

"So is it true?" Dennis asked, practically bouncing on the edge of my bed. He'd had one of the quickest recoveries, going from barely moving to sugar-high three-year-old in just a few hours. The doctors, fortunately, were satisfied to call it a miracle without asking too many difficult questions.

I was improving, too, but it wasn't miraculous – and it was far too slow for Dean's liking. He said it was because I'd exerted myself and hadn't used the blankets when he'd told me to. (Of course that damn well _wasn't _the real reason, idiot.) I was feeling much healthier. (How do I know what the real reason was? I'm not a doctor!) But I still needed a lot of rest and more sleep than usual. (Because _you're _not a doctor, either.) Dean was seeing that I got it.

Principal Summers had insisted that Dean and I move back to the school while I recovered, so I didn't have to miss any of the school year. He'd even offered to let me finish the year out at Ellison. (I think he'd have been happy for me to finish high school at Ellison, just so he could be certain something supernatural wouldn't happen again.) But I didn't see Dad allowing it. I had a few weeks, though, till the end of the semester, and that was more than I'd expected.

Dean, of course, wasn't even _pretending _to be a student anymore. I don't know exactly what he told them he was or did, though I did once hear him muttering to the cheerleaders – something involving "CIA" and "top-secret mission" and "youngest-ever doctor at the CDC". I didn't even try to figure out the rest.

Dean he didn't attend a single class. He hung out with his former classmates at mealtimes and when they went to the gym, but that was it. He spent the hours when I was in class or study group helping the kids in the electronics lab. Once I was back in my room he came and sat with me and threatened me with a blanket if I so much as cleared my throat.

Fortunately for my sanity, Mark, Alan and Victor (the guys who'd gone after Jacobi with him) managed to keep him occupied at least part of the time. From what Dean told me, they'd had an idea that something was going on because they'd had parents at Ellison in the sixties. Their parents hadn't outright suspected what was happening – Jacobi's spell had seen to that – but they'd had a vague feeling of wrongness (Dean's words, not mine) which, along with the knowledge of the earlier deaths, they'd passed on to their kids.

It didn't sound like much, but it had made them _not _call Dean a lunatic, and that had kept me alive, so I wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Anyway, they came by some evenings, and persuaded Dean to go talk to them out in the corridor. He never went so far that he wouldn't hear me if I raised my voice.

That afternoon, I'd actually managed the climb up the stairs to my room without leaning on either the banister or Dean's arm. Dean had responded with a proud grin as bright as the sun, and I hadn't had the heart to shove him off when he slid a supporting hand under my elbow afterwards.

He'd been in a good mood, and when Dennis had come to enquire after me Dean decided I was healthy enough for him to leave us alone while he went to look up Natalya and tell her more about his top-secret counter-espionage activities.

"So you hunt demons and ghosts and things?" Dennis asked in an awed whisper. "All the time?"

I laughed. "When I can't get out of it. Not as cool as it sounds, man."

"I bet it's _way _cooler. So what was going on here? Jacobi's a ghost?"

"Not exactly," I said, smiling. "Ghosts can't be handcuffed to a hospital bed. He was a… a witch, I guess. That's the closest I can come. The evil kind."

"But there were ghosts?"

"Yeah."

"_Awesome._"

I thought about Tucker.

Earlier – and maybe that's where I should have started, but Dean stopped me on the grounds of _I don't want to relive that crap again, Sam, we are sure as hell not talking about it_ – and he calls me a girl! (Shut up, Dean.) Anyway, _earlier_, I'd realized that Tucker was the evidence of Jacobi's evil that we had to wipe out. Not just Tucker, but the ghosts of all Jacobi's victims. They had to be laid to rest.

It had taken four days, because most of them had died in their homes or on vacation, far away from the school. Dad had called Josh and Caleb and Pastor Jim and Bobby, and they'd spread out across the country and systematically tracked down local legends and burned bodies.

Four days while I got progressively sicker and Dad sat with the phone glued to his ear and refused to shave or eat or go anywhere that wasn't the library to look up more victims, and Dean bought a copy of Andersen's fairytales and read them to me till his voice cracked under the strain. Four days of coughing and pain and exhaustion and my brother's reassuring arms.

Four days, and then Bobby had called to tell us that he'd burned the lock of Savannah Jennings' hair that her little sister had kept in a locket. That had been the last of the out-of-towners.

Dean and Dad had snuck into the cemetery that night to salt and burn Mary-Jo, Melinda and Kurt Otto. The thought made me sick – Melinda had been my first friend in this place, the first person at Ellison to actually be nice to me. (That was the one part of the story I _didn't_ share with Dennis. Ghost-hunting was cool. Desecrating graves, not so much.)

Then there had only been two victims left: Tucker and Zoë Morales.

Zoë had had a hunter's funeral, of course. That had been one of the provisions of her will and Principal Culver had seen it done. But I'd been pretty sure the weapons I'd found in the basement must've been her stash. Dean and Dad had agreed, so one night they'd taken everything out and burnt it.

That had left Tucker. He'd been the hardest.

Dad and Dean had hoped to find a headstone for him in the local cemetery, but they hadn't. We hadn't known where to start looking. Ellison was a huge school, with classrooms and labs and the library and gym and lockers and bedrooms and kitchens – whatever was holding Tucker back could have been _anywhere_. Dean had agonized over it, poring over the school's blueprints while running one hand distractedly through my hair.

We were lucky that destroying the altar had stopped _all _the students from deteriorating as fast as they had been. They were all sick and weak, but nobody died in those four days.

Finally it had been Tucker himself who'd shown us the way. Dean had taken me up to the school – the students had been sent home; I think Summers just called it a dangerous and highly contagious virus – in the hope that, between us, we'd be able figure it out.

By then I couldn't walk more than a couple of steps without help, so by the time we actually got inside the building I was exhausted. I leaned into Dean's solid warmth and tried to catch my breath.

While we were standing in the foyer Tucker appeared in front of us.

I nudged Dean.

"Yeah, I see him," Dean said. "He doesn't look vengeful."

"If he wanted to hurt me, he had plenty of chances," I pointed out.

Tucker took a couple of steps forward and then backed away, just as he'd done in the garden the other day.

"I think he wants us to follow him," I told Dean.

"Awesome. Let's go."

It was very slow going. Dean was taking most of my weight: it was all I could do to keep my balance. Eventually, though, we got to the principal's office.

"You left something _here_?" Dean asked Tucker. "You're either exactly like me or exactly like Sam."

Tucker smiled at me before indicating a glass display case behind the desk. It held rows of cups and trophies, spoils of Ellison's sporting victories. (And considering the amount the school could afford to spend on trainers and physios and gym equipment, they had a lot of those.) Dean deposited me in one of the chairs and went around the desk to look at them.

"One of these yours?" he asked Tucker. "Which team were you on?"

"It would be from before 1970," I told Dean. "That was the year Tucker died. And Tucker was twelve when he died, so maybe between 1965 and 1970."

"Thanks, geek," Dean muttered. "Well, we have three possibilities, given the kid's age and the timeframe." He pulled out three trophies and put them on the table. "Baseball." He tapped one. "Soccer." The second. "Another baseball." He indicated the third. "So, which is it?"

Tucker shimmered forward and touched the soccer trophy.

"Soccer, huh?" Dean asked. "You are _so _like Sammy."

We took the trophy outside. Dean set fire to it. Tucker smiled at us gratefully before he faded into mist.

And now it was over. I was getting stronger every day. The students had begun to trickle back, although the school wouldn't be at full strength again until the next semester. Some of the victims – like Dennis – were already back to normal. Nobody other than Dennis (and Dean's three friends) had figured out that something supernatural had been involved. They'd all been sworn to secrecy, of course, and for once Dad wasn't too worried about people finding out. Summers was grateful enough (and apologetic enough over my illness) that he'd make sure nobody asked too many difficult questions.

Dennis and I were discussing our next upcoming field trip when Tom, who had come back only that morning, burst into the room.

"Have you heard about Jacobi?" he demanded.

"What about him?" I asked, although I had a feeling I already knew. After all, we'd undone the spell that had kept him alive.

"He's dead," Tom said, confirming my suspicions. "Nothing unusual about it, though. They say he was pretty beat up." He dropped into the desk chair. "So is it true he was into some Satanic crap?"

"Yeah," I said, warning Dennis with a glance not to reveal more.

"And he was trying to sacrifice you?"

I shrugged. "I was lucky to get away from him."

"You think maybe he got… you know… _unhinged_ because of all the other weird stuff? Kids getting hurt and sick, maybe he started to – panic, or something."

"Maybe," Dennis agreed. "Sam's right. He's lucky Dean got to him in time."

"Dean? Dean Peters?" Tom looked at me in astonishment. "The senior? _He _saved you? Man, I thought he hated you."

"What?" I asked, astonished. "Why?"

Tom checked to make sure the door was shut and then leaned forward. "Rayne told me. She's just started cheer squad this year and she said Natalya's friend Shari was – you know, _interested_ – and apparently Dean talked her out of it."

"Dean might have been trying to save her trouble," Dennis said mildly. "Sam's jailbait."

"Man, Shari's only sixteen. Besides, it's not like anyone would've _known_ or anything. Well, I mean, _we_ would've known, but outside the school…"

I laughed as I listened to Tom's chatter and amused myself imagining what Dean's reaction would be if I made out with an older girl. He would either be horrified enough to try to salt and burn her or pleased and amused enough to buy me a beer and embarrass me publicly, and they was absolutely no knowing which way it would go.

When Dean came back later in the evening, I was by myself again, Tom and Dennis having gone to finish their homework and work on a paper that Ms. Gomez had said firmly that we had to hand in, mystery illnesses or no mystery illnesses.

"Hey, kid." He peered over my shoulder. "Trig? On a nice afternoon like this? Only you, Sammy." He pulled my chair away from the desk and turned it so it faced the bed. "I have to talk to you." He sat on the bed.

"Really? _You _want to talk? Are you sure _you're _not sick now?"

"Shut up. I'm serious!" Dean leaned forward. "You hear about Jacobi?"

"I heard. We'll have to salt and burn. If anyone's going to come back as a vengeful spirit…"

"Yeah, I'll tell Dad… Sammy?"

"Yeah?"

"Are you mad at me?"

I stared at Dean. This was a little weird even for him. "About Jacobi? Why would I be mad at you? You didn't kill him. We always knew he'd die if we undid his spell; it was only a question of time. And we could hardly let him keep draining kids."

"Yeah, but I beat him up."

I shrugged. Jacobi had almost killed me. Dean had let loose on him. It had been a natural progression of events. It wasn't like I hadn't known what would happen from the moment Jacobi _talked_ about hurting me in Dean's presence.

"So?" I asked. "He still would've died, dude. Maybe not in a hospital bed."

"Maybe not as soon."

"Really?" I asked, lifting my eyebrows. "You're telling me that if he _hadn't_ been in a hospital room surrounded by half the local police force, you and Dad would just have let him be?"

Dean scowled and dropped his head into his hands. "Would you have wanted me to?"

"He was a murderer, Dean. He would have done it again. And you didn't kill him. You beat him up, and he deserved _that_ for what he did. What's wrong with you, man?"

"You got mad when I said it earlier."

"When you said _what_?"

"That I could – drain Jacobi – to save you."

"That's not the same thing." I scooted my chair closer. "That would've been cold-blooded murder, Dean. I didn't want murder on your hands. It's not worth it. This was different. We had to reverse his ritual."

"Yeah." Dean didn't sound like he was entirely certain I wasn't upset with him. He ruffled my hair and got to his feet. "OK. I have to go to the gym – I promised I'd help with the basketball practise. I'll see you after dinner, yeah?"

"Sure," I said.

After Dean left, I really didn't feel like sitting in my room by myself, trigonometry homework or not. I got Dennis and Tom and we went to get some fresh air. Going downstairs was difficult, and I had to use the banisters to keep my balance, but when I got outside I decided it had been worth the effort. It was a beautiful afternoon.

We wound up wandering in the direction of the tool shed.

"Fitch was in a bad mood," Tom commented when he saw it. "I ran into him this morning and he yelled at me for trampling the lawn."

I felt a stab of sympathy. I could remember the way Dean's entire body had shaken with the force of his sobs that day at the hospital. If Fitch felt even half as bad about _actually_ losing his son as Dean had at the _idea_ of losing me, he had to be feeling pretty miserable. And it wasn't Fitch's fault his son had been evil.

"Let's check it out," I indicated the tool shed. "Maybe he's there."

"You _want _to meet him?"

I shrugged. "Why not? Maybe he's in a better mood now."

Tom shook his head, but he led the way down the path to the tool shed anyway. As soon as we were within ten feet of it, I knew something was wrong. I could smell the distinct acrid scent of –

"What's that?" Dennis asked, wrinkling his nose.

"No idea, man," Tom said. "Some new fertilizer, maybe?"

Gunpowder. It was gunpowder.

The door swung open at Tom's touch. Even before it did, I knew what we'd see.

Fitch was lying in a puddle of blood on the floor, a pistol clutched in his dead fingers.

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	13. Epilogue: Quit Being a Girl Now, Sam

**Author's Note:** Um. Late. Sorry. *blushes*

So this is the end of this story. I have a one-shot to post after this and another one planned after that. And then maybe, finally, the sequel to _Dies Felices_. Let's see how it goes.

I haven't replied to reviews yet – no time, you know the drill. I will, as soon as I can, and I appreciate and treasure each and every one.

For anyone following this fic on LJ, I know I'm behind – I'll try to get it all updated tonight.

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**Epilogue: Quit Being a Girl Now, Sam**

Sam curled up in his sleeping bag, shivering a little until I rolled my eyes and leaned over to zip it up.

"Happy now, princess?"

"Mmmmph," Sam muttered incoherently, which I took to mean, "Yes, Dean, thank you for being an awesome big brother."

(_What?_ Yeah, yeah, you and your freaking dramatic unities.)

Sam says I can't go into that without explaining what happened earlier. (Like you didn't just do that _exact _thing, Aristotle.)

So, once again, let's go back in time a bit. Sam found Fitch's body. The old gardener had committed suicide. Sam and the other two kids went to Summers. Summers called the cops in, called the other kids' parents, and called Dad. The other kids' parents came. Dad couldn't be reached because he was tracking down some apartment where he'd discovered that Jacobi lived when school was out, making sure there was nothing left that might come back later to bite us in the ass.

When the police came, Summers told them they could interview Tom and Dennis but they'd have to wait to speak to Sam until his father could get there.

Is something wrong with that picture?

Yahtzee! In all the calling that was going on, neither Summers nor Sam thought of telling _me_.

Sam claimed he didn't want to blow my cover (I was Dean Peters) and Summers, when I got up in his face and asked him whether he'd gone senile and what he thought he meant by even _putting_ Sam in the same room as the cops without my permission, stuttered and looked like he'd faint.

What happened (I heard later, because _nobody_ called me _then_) was that Summers put all three boys in the staff room, left Ms. Gomez to keep an eye on them, and called the parents. Dennis and Tom both had their parents very close by – a lot of families had come down because of the mystery epidemic, and nobody really wanted to leave until they were sure their kids were safe. Within an hour, Dennis' and Tom's parents were there, and Summers sent them to the staff room. Then he sent the cops up to the staff room.

They did the good-cop-bad-cop routine. And the guy who was playing bad cop decided to pick on _my _brother.

Can you tell where I'm going with this?

The rumours of Fitch's death were all over the school. Those, coupled with my big-brother radar going off insanely, were enough to send me scurrying to the staff room, where Victor told me the principal was meeting the authorities.

The door was shut and whatever (Sam said it was locked), but I really didn't notice. Sam was on the other side of that door, needing me. I could_ sense_ it. I pushed the door; it opened. And if the hinges broke and the wood splintered around the lock – well, really not my problem. Summers should've known better than to put a locked door between me and my baby brother.

I went in to find the bad cop (I think his name was Norton, or possibly Norris) browbeating Sam.

Seriously. And I cannot emphasize enough that Sam, at the time, wasn't the size of the house. He was tiny, his head not even reaching my shoulder, and skinny, and a _kid_.

And Norton (or whatever his name was) had him pretty much trapped in a chair and was leaning over him threateningly. (Not touching him, which was just as well because if he'd laid a _finger_ on Sam I would've killed him before anyone could think of getting a lawyer to sue for harassment of a minor.)

Sammy – _my _Sammy – looked exhausted and vulnerable and sad, and Officer Nor-whatever was being a jerk to him.

What do you think I did?

You're wrong, then. I did shove the creep off Sam, but I _didn't_ shoot him with his own gun or introduce him face-first to the desk. I pushed him away, got between him and Sam, and said, "Who the hell gave you permission to interrogate Sam? Like _that_?"

Norton scowled at me. "Who the hell are _you_?"

"I'm Sam's older brother. The person who is going to _kill _you if you've upset him. Oh, and since our Dad doesn't seem to be around, I'm also his legal guardian."

Norton turned to Summers. "He has a brother? Why didn't you tell me the brat had a brother? We could have dealt with this _so _much sooner."

Summers met my eyes. Then he had the sense to make some excuse about forms he needed filled and hustle the officers out of the room before I slugged someone.

Tom, Dennis and their families followed. Sam was about to get up, but I shoved him back into his chair.

He sighed. "Dean, I –"

"Can it." I considered crouching to his eye-level, but decided against it. _First_ I needed to give Sam hell for not calling me. _Then_ I'd see about making him feel better. "What do you think you're _doing_, moron?" Sam had the nerve to look politely puzzled. I crossed my arms and waited. When he didn't say anything for a minute, I prompted, "_Well?_"

"Well… I _thought _I was going to go deal with whatever crap Norton wants, but I'm guessing that's not the answer you're looking for."

Right. Enough games.

"You didn't call me," I growled, stepping right into Sam's space so he had to crane his neck to look at me. (Doesn't mean you have to make me do it now to _demonstrate_, Sam! How was _I _supposed to know you'd grow into a human giraffe?) "You're supposed to call me when things go sideways."

"I didn't want to blow your cover," Sam mumbled, not meeting my eyes.

"Even _you _can't be that stupid. The case is _over_, Sam. How the hell does it even _matter _if my cover gets blown?"

Sam flushed and ducked his head. "Sorry. I wasn't thinking."

He looked like a sad little puppy (and if you think the eyes are bad _now_, you should have seen them back when he was littler than me), so obviously I couldn't yell at him like he deserved. "Come _on_, kiddo," I urged. "Talk to me. What's wrong? You don't usually get this upset over cases."

"He shot himself," Sam whispered, voice shaking.

"Fitch? That must've sucked, but it's not like you've not seen blood before. Or corpses. What's wrong?"

"He saved my life." Sam's hands came up and latched onto my jacket. "He must've known it would kill Jacobi when we reversed his ritual. He saved my life and I never even _checked _on him."

"You've been very sick," I pointed out. "Couldn't even climb the stairs on your own until today. And you were _going _to check on him. Not your fault he offed himself before you could."

"If I'd gone sooner –"

"Wouldn't have changed anything." I slipped off my jacket and wrapped it around Sam. "What did he have to live for, Sam? He gave up everything in his old life to come here." I squeezed Sam's shoulder. "Do you regret reversing Jacobi's spell?"

Sam thought about it and shook his head. "No. A lot more people would have died – and they're alive now because we did it."

"Then all you regret is that you didn't prevent Fitch from eating his gun?" Sam tugged my jacket tighter around himself. "Sammy… He made his choice, kiddo. I'm not saying it was ideal, but I understand how he felt."

"It still sucks."

"Yeah," I agreed, running my fingers through Sam's hair. "It does. Some hunts are like that. I'm sorry this one was." He leaned forward, forehead on my ribs. "But we got the bad guy and saved a lot of people and you're alive to be a pain in my ass, so I'm counting it as a win."

Is that where I'm supposed to end?

Oh, but I haven't explained the sleeping bag yet. It's fairly straightforward. I'd promised Sam a weekend away, just the two of us, to celebrate his first successful hunt. I offered him his choice of place, but he left it to me, and I had plans to surprise him.

Before that, Dad wanted to do something with us to celebrate, too, so the weekend before my big plan he announced that we were all going camping. _Camping _camping, not Wendigo-hunting. The kind of camping where you tell scary stories and roast marshmallows over an open fire.

_That _was how I wound up zipping a drowsy Sammy into his sleeping bag, thanking my lucky stars for the fact that he was still with me. It had been close.

Anything else? Oh, yeah, that cheerleader who had her eye on Sam. Sherry or Cherry or something. I _did _talk her out of hitting on him. I really didn't have a choice there. She was much older than Sam, and the kid, despite his rebellious tendencies, was a total innocent in some ways. I knew her well enough to know she wasn't serious, and if she'd broken his heart or something I'd have had to salt and burn her. And that would've been messy. I didn't tell him about it because it would piss him off. I had _no _idea that idiot kid would tell him.

Anyway, too much else happened for Sam to get worked up about that, so we're good.

And _that_ really is the end of the story. Or, at least, the end of _this _story. There's the weekend celebration I had with Sam later, but _that_… Well, _that's_ another story altogether. And we're not getting into _that _story until Sam's told me how he learnt to hack.

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THE END

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